


Memory Logs

by YoroiNoKyojin



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Horror, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, Monsters, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Pairings, Romance, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Survival Horror, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoroiNoKyojin/pseuds/YoroiNoKyojin
Summary: Maybe there was something more to the monster. Maybe there was some semblance of humanity under that mask after all.Immediately Meg banished the thought and clutched the drawing a little tighter, quickening her pace into a jog as she hurried to leave. That was ridiculous. He’d been killing her and her friends for god knows how long; there was nothing left there. He was a killer. She glanced down at the sketch he’d given her; in the corner he’d scribbled his name.Evan.[[ An Evan MacMillan x Meg Thomas anthology. All chapters are their own scenes, scattered memory logs that, together, make up a story that revolves around the two and their time in the Fog - and maybe even after. Explicit for later smut, gore and blood, horror themes, sexual themes, etc. There are other mentioned/insinuated pairings and other characters involved as well! ]]
Relationships: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper/Meg Thomas
Comments: 124
Kudos: 153





	1. Coal Sketches

**Author's Note:**

> Hello folks! Thank you so much for taking the time to read. I love this fandom and realize I haven't written NEARLY enough for it - so here I am starting out with my favorite pairing, MegMillan. I'll be updating this sporadically along with my other chapter stories, so watch out for them! Any kudos/comments left are always appreciated - they are what inspire me to keep going! 
> 
> And as always, THANK YOU for reading! <3

**_1\. Coal Sketches_ **

**_[ Meeting 92; MacMillan Estate. ]_ **

She felt nothing but the wind in her ears and the cold, misty air in her lungs as she ran, as far and as fast as her legs would take her. For Meg Thomas, running was more than just a way to expel her excess energy; running was  _ everything. A way of life.  _

Running was the one thing that had saved her life in this desolate place; and she was forever grateful that even though she’d resided in the Fog for who knows how long, enduring the endless torture of the Entity’s sick games, that she could still  _ run.  _

Her mind had wandered so much that she hadn’t realized how far away from the campfire her legs had taken her until the shadow of a large decrepit building loomed over her, whispering danger and death. Meg felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, bristling with fear; at the same time, she was curious. She’d never been here outside of one of the Entity’s trials, and she wondered just how different it might be when not part of the games. The one thing she had to watch out for;  _ the Trapper.  _

Thinking about him brought a thrill of fear down the red-head’s spine and she went into crouch mode, sharp blue-gray eyes keeping a close watch for him.  _ The moment you spot him, you leave,  _ she instructed herself firmly. Curiosity often got Meg into trouble and she had no idea what would happen if he caught her outside the game, and that was one thing she  _ didn’t  _ want to find out. 

Sneaking closer to the large factory in the middle of the open area, Meg kept her eyes peeled and, seeing no one, went inside. She never had the time to meander the place considering every time she went through it, she was being chased by some maniacal beast eager for her blood, and never before did she  _ truly  _ notice how…  _ off  _ everything was. Like everything in this realm was a mere shadow of reality, a giant illusion of normalcy created by the Entity. As she passed by a set of stairs leading below-ground, she stopped and stared down into the darkness, a shiver of fear rolling through her. There was no torture, no absolute terror like the basement. While she recognized the killers and the places this realm held, she could never fully remember what happened in a trial after it ended - another aspect where the Entity exerted its control, she supposed - but she knew that the basement meant the cruelest of deaths. 

Instead, she decided to go  _ up.  _ The winding stairs were creaky and Meg felt like she might fall any moment - and there  _ was  _ a moment where they creaked and she paused in her step, terror icing over her heart - but she made it up to the top floor and ambled along the walkways, examining everything. Seeing a door that led into an office-type area, Meg slowly and carefully creaked it open and halted in the doorway, staring at the medium-sized room in utter surprise.

Papers lined the walls; papers filled with  _ drawings. _

Finally getting her feet to move and stepping inside, she drew in closer to study them more closely. All of them were done with charcoal, and the sketches depicted everything from scenery, to weapons, to abstract scribblings. She even noticed the portraits of a few fellow survivors, but their faces were warped with fear or grief. One stood out from the rest, and as she approached it, the red-head realized why, a gasp catching in her throat.

_ She  _ was the portrait. It was Meg’s face, sketched to near perfection, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her lips quirked into a half-grin. Lithe fingers delicately brushed over the cracked, dried paper, her blue-gray eyes wandering the dark lines, the smooth shading. 

Meg’s gaze was ripped away from the paper by movement outside the window in front of her. Peering through the dirty glass, she spotted no one other than the Trapper himself out on the grounds, looking remarkably small from this vantage and sitting on a large crate with his mask in his hands. His back was to her so she couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were hunched and she could tell without seeing his expression… he was  _ tired. _

Meg had never once stopped to think that the killers might feel the same way the survivors did. After all; hadn’t they - at least some of them - been human, too?

Her eyes moved back to the sketch. Had he done these? They didn’t seem to fit in with the interior decorating, so  _ someone  _ must have put them there - was an absolute monster like the Trapper really able to create something so…  _ beautiful? _

When Meg looked out the window again, her eyes widened and her heart iced over.  _ He was gone.  _ Turning away from the window and the drawing of herself, the red-head frantically tried to control her breathing and searched for a place to hide. There was no way that even  _ she  _ could get out of here fast enough to be unnoticed; her only option was to hide and wait him out. She heard the heavy thudding footsteps of the beast as he entered the building, and her breath caught when she heard him clambering up the stairs. 

Throwing herself behind a ruined cabinet and putting a hand over her mouth to stifle her panicked breaths, she waited. Eventually the killer entered the office-like room; she strained to get a look at his face, but that white, grinning mask was firmly in place. His body seemed to fill the whole room as, silently, he approached the sketch of Meg and large, rough fingers brushed uncharacteristically tenderly over her cheek, before lowering. He stared a while longer until -

**_Shift shift._ **

Meg had instinctively moved a little bit to get a better look at what the hell he was doing, but that was her undoing. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, the Trapper turned to look over at where she was hiding. The moment he began moving, Meg clawed her way out from behind the cabinet in an effort to escape. A scream ripped from her throat as he grabbed her and without thinking she began kicking, hitting every part of him she could reach. He only stood there, a large hand latched onto her upper arm, waiting until she wore herself out.

It wasn’t too long. Meg caught her breath, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she tilted her head back to look up at him; silent except for her heavy panting and his low, bear-like breathing. His jaw worked behind his mask, as if he was attempting to speak, and her eyes widened. “Why… are you here?” he finally asked, voice deep and gravelly and rusty from disuse. It was shocking to Meg how exhausted he sounded; how  _ different  _ his voice was in comparison to how he’d sounded in the beginning of all this. The more she stared at him, the more the red-head realized that he seemed just as worn down from these trials as she was. They were among the first to come here, after all. 

It took Meg a long moment to figure out a response; so long, in fact, that he’d let her go and stepped back, but was still blocking the path to the door. As she looked up at him, she remembered once again what a  _ beast  _ of a man he was; he had to have been almost seven feet tall, over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Even exhausted and defeated, he was still a force of nature. A terrifying monster. “Stay back, you dumb turtle,” she finally said, her voice wavering. 

His head tilted slightly. Curiously. “Dumb turtle…” he rumbled, almost as if amused. “Answer… my question… Little Rabbit.”

_ Little Rabbit.  _ The nickname struck a chord within her; though for the life of her, Meg couldn’t seem to remember exactly when it had been said. This was one of those incredibly rare occasions where she wished the Entity would preserve their memories of the trials so that she could remember exactly what history she seemed to have with this man. “I-I was jogging,” she finally replied, furrowing her brows and shooting him a glare. “Not that I have to tell you  _ anything.” _

He simply continued to stare. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, fear gripping her, but she was able to drag her eyes away from the massive man and for whatever reason, they settled on the sketch he did - the one of  _ her. _ Before she could stop herself, she asked, “did you draw that?”

He followed her gaze, turning his head to glance over at the portrait. “Yes,” he replied, voice low, barely above a raspy whisper. 

“It’s… beautiful.”

Trapper tilted his head once more, turning back to her. Since he was so close she could see hints of his eyes from behind that terrible, smiling mask; they were very pale, almost milky white in color, but behind them was an intensity that was utterly terrifying. Her breath caught in her throat but her feet remained firmly planted, unwilling to move. Her voice came out shaky: “w-why me?”

His broad shoulders tensed slightly, but his voice was honest. “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t look like you’re going to hurt me.”

“No.”

Meg’s eyes squinted slightly. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t attempted to run yet; something, she didn’t know what, but  _ something  _ kept her rooted in her spot. Still, she had to admit she was utterly confused. She hadn’t really encountered many killers outside of matches that she could recall, but she and the other survivors had just assumed they were bloodthirsty savages  _ all  _ the time. “And why not?” she demanded, tone snotty. 

She could see his eyes harden behind the eye holes in the mask and she wondered, briefly struck with dread, if she’d made him angry. “I’ve been… here… too long,” he finally rasped, and Meg was struck by just how deflated he really sounded. Even more so shocked at the fact that she felt exactly the same way. It seemed that whether you were killed or did the killing, enduring the same games over and over again took its toll. 

“I heard you killed a hundred men,” she suddenly found herself saying. She wasn’t sure why - whether it was out of a rare opportunity to actually talk to him, or it was her just trying to lose the brief sympathy she felt for the murderer - but it came up. Like word vomit. “I heard you were a monster even before the Entity sent you here.”

For the first time, the Trapper faltered. Eyes narrowed dangerously on her and his hands clenched into fists, unclenching and clenching again like a nervous habit. “... Yes,” he finally replied, voice utterly quiet. “I… did.”

“If you managed something so vile,” Meg spat, “then why don’t you put me on a hook right now? Grab your weird looking sword thing and carve me up? Dump my body in the woods?? Why would you draw pictures of me??” 

Now that she really thought about it, his efforts in the trials had been rather weak lately. Or at least what she remembered - which wasn’t much. It was like he’d simply… given up. 

In a way, she had too.

His jaw worked behind his mask again. As if chewing on his words a moment before responding. “We are… connected… Little Rabbit.” There was an odd hint of pain in his voice as he said the name; but Meg was more focused on the bullshit that had come out of his mouth.  _ Connected?  _ What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sure, they’d come into this hell-hole at the same time… but did that have to mean anything? She hadn’t thought so… but maybe…

Shaking herself out of it, Meg fixed the killer with a belligerent stare. “Connected. Right. Well, if you’re going to be all weird and just stare at me like a dumb turtle… then I’m going to go.” She said that, but her feet remained rooted all the same. 

The Trapper considered her for just a brief moment before turning away, going over to the wall, hands lifting to carefully pull her sketch from it. Meg’s eyes shifted to the door; now would’ve been a perfect time to make her escape…  _ so why wasn’t she moving? _

The brute of a man brought the paper over to her, offering it silently. Meg’s eyes widened and a different feeling filled her chest; odd… but different. “You want me to keep it?”

He didn’t answer as she numbly took the charcoal picture, holding it in shaking hands. The Trapper went over to the door, opening it. As Meg’s feet finally began to move, slowly taking her over to the door, she stopped in front of him. “What’s your name?” she blurted. “It can’t possibly just be ‘the Trapper’...”

He took the paper from her, and Meg found herself surprisingly reluctant to let it go. Still, she watched as he took it over to a ratty desk in the corner, rummaging around in a half-broken drawer and pulling out a small, black stick. He used the charcoal to scribble something on the dried-up paper, before bringing it back to her. When she took the drawing, their fingers brushed, and Meg felt absolute electricity race up her arm - the feeling was so shocking that she couldn’t help the gasp the left her lips. “W-What the hell was that?” she asked, utterly confused, afraid, and exhilarated. 

“Connected,” he replied. 

Meg gave him a sour look, turning away and beginning to trudge out the office door and down the steps. As she went, she constantly glanced back over her shoulder, but he never followed; simply stood just inside the room, watching her silently. Of all the time she’d spent here in the Fog, that encounter might have been the weirdest she’d ever had. Maybe there was something more to the monster. Maybe there was some semblance of humanity under that mask after all. 

Immediately she banished the thought and clutched the drawing a little tighter, quickening her pace into a jog as she hurried to leave. That was ridiculous. He’d been killing her and her friends for god knows how long; there was nothing left there. He was a  _ killer.  _

She glanced down at the sketch he’d given her; in the corner he’d scribbled his name. 

_ Evan. _


	2. Brutality

**_2\. Brutality_ **

**_[ Meeting 01; MacMillan Estate. ]_ **

When Meg’s eyes opened to a dark, eerie black-blue-green sky and the sound of a cawing crow, she wondered what the hell happened. Had she fallen while running and passed out? God, her mom would be wondering where she was… suddenly an image of huge, long spider-like claws coming toward her flashed through her mind and she sat up in fear, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever that  _ thing  _ had been - it was terrifying. 

The red-head found herself on the grounds of some abandoned factory - or some other similar facility. Forestry spotted the place and along the grounds there were junk piles, large crates of supplies, a haunting wooden shack in the corner of the fenced-in place, a big factory building, and an adjoining house. 

The only sign of life was the bright crackling of a fire in a rusted barrel to her right… and the crows. Meg’s eyes widened. There were  _ dozens  _ of them. They sat on the crates, rested in the trees, fluttered over the piles of junk, soared through the sky over the desolate wooden shack far ahead of her. One landed right near her, peering at her with intelligent black eyes. There was something about it… something…  _ off.  _ Peering a bit closer, she saw horrifyingly familiar little spider-like legs begin to extend out of its back, and she uttered a scream, scrambling away. The loud noise startled the crow and it took off into the sky.

“Where the  _ hell am I?”  _ Meg whispered, voice shaking; as she attempted to ground herself and keep her own whirling thoughts from destroying her, she cautiously got to her feet. Her first instinct was to run. Running was safety, running was freedom, running was  _ life.  _

Meg dug her heels in, a surge of adrenaline rushing through her body, egging her on to the safety of the fence. If she could run fast enough, jump high enough, maybe she’d get out of here. Before she had a chance to move, a hand grabbed her arm and the other covered her mouth before she let out a scream. A boy stared at her with impossibly dark eyes, his expression grim. “I don’t know how the hell we got here,” he began quietly, “but I do know there’s something out here. Something dangerous. It’s  _ hunting us -  _ leaving out bear traps for us to get caught in. So you have to  _ watch your step and be quiet.  _ Okay…?”

Trying to come down from her panic attack, Meg focused on the physical rather than her fear. The boy’s eyes were slanted, possibly Asian, and his black hair was unruly - like he lived in the wild rather than amongst society. His green jacket and khaki pants were dirty and worn down, and he had the posture of a person who knew exactly how to take care of themselves when all alone. His reassuring gaze lowered Meg’s heart-rate and finally she nodded, eyes still wide. The boy let her go and put a hand to his chest. “I’m Jake. I think it’s best if we stick together… uhm…?”

“Meg,” she answered, voice surprisingly even. “Y-You said something about… bear traps?”

“Yeah,” he replied, waving her along. “There’s a hunter here. Probably used to killing animals, but those traps will hurt a human just fine.”

The red-head felt fear creep back into her heart. Following Jake’s lead, Meg crept across the estate grounds, and the pair never came across any of the bear traps, or even another living soul - but they did eventually find a large door with a power box next to it. Upon inspection, Jake cursed. “Power’s out,” he muttered. “We’re gonna have to find a way to turn it back on.”

Nearby, Meg spotted what looked to be a dusty old generator. “You think that old heap of junk will power it up?” she asked, gesturing over to it. 

Jake pursed his lips. “Hmm. With a gate that size… and with old these generators look... it’ll take several of them to restore power.”

“You seem to know a lot about this stuff,” Meg murmured, impressed.

“Living out in the woods for years will have that effect,” Jake replied with a bitter smile. He opened his mouth to continue when they heard an ungodly wailing in the distance. It was the scream of a woman in utter agony… the sound chilled Meg to the bone. 

“It’s the hunter… we can’t stick around and let that happen to us,” she said, taking a few steps back, feeling her breath quicken again. 

“I like to call him the Trapper,” Jake responded with anger in his voice. “And no… we can’t. But we also can’t leave someone else to die like this.”

“You’re not suggesting…?” Meg gaped at him. “We need to do something I do best, Jake -  _ run.” _

“Would you want someone to save you, if that happened to you?” he demanded.

Meg fell silent. When Jake started moving toward the sounds of the screams, so did she, though every fiber of her being told her to do the exact opposite. What kind of lunatic ran  _ toward  _ the evil instead of away from it?

When they reached the scene, hiding behind some large supply crates, they found that the screaming woman - who had dark skin, black dreaded hair, and glasses - was whimpering, trembling, and hanging from a  _ dirty old meat hook. _ The amount of pain she must have been in… the blood  _ drip drip dripping  _ on the ground… her dangling feet… the sight was enough to cause bile to rise in the back of Meg’s throat and she forced it down, looking to Jake for instructions. “I’ll… I’ll get her down,” he said, looking like he was about to be sick himself. As he moved forward, careful not to draw any attention, Meg fought back her panic and watched with bated breath.

It wasn’t until she heard a monstrous, deep breathing from behind her that she tore her eyes away from the scene, ice filling her chest. Slowly turning around, Meg came face to face with an absolute monster of a man - the hunter that left traps out for them all.  _ The Trapper,  _ as Jake had called him. Meg’s wide blue-gray eyes slowly roved the killer’s form, taking in the sight of his mining overalls, dirty, soot-covered hands - one of which held a large rusted blade, the other holding one of the infamous traps - and tanned skin blemished with bits of metal twisting about his form. The white mask he wore grinned coldly down at her and he stood there, unmoving, simply staring at her. Meg should have taken the opportunity to  _ run - to do  _ **_something_ ** _ \-  _ but her legs simply wouldn’t move as she looked on him in terror. The man was so huge that she had to crane her neck to look up at his face, covered by that hideous mask… had had to have been close to seven feet tall. And he was built like a  _ tank.  _

_ No wonder he was able to toss that other woman onto a meat hook. _

Swallowing her fear, Meg was finally able to take a step back - then another… and another - until she tripped over a stump and sprawled out on her back. As he began closing the distance between them, she screamed, began scrambling backwards, crying, “no, no, no,  _ no! GET AWAY! STAY BACK!” _

He stopped, tilted his head at her. When he spoke, his voice was low, rich, rugged. Like the scent of whiskey, or the smoke of a fire.  _ “You’re just a scared little rabbit.” _

Despite the absolute terror gripping her chest, Meg felt a surge of indignance at the jab. How dare he call her a coward when he was the one preying on innocent victims? “And you’re just a big brute who gets off on hurting innocent people,” she snarled, mustering up her nastiest glare, still moving back, away from him, always away. 

A chuckle came from him; a low, rumbling sound, akin to the yawning of a bear. Rage tore through her; he was  _ laughing at her.  _ It seemed he was about to say something else when someone crashed into him from behind;  _ Jake.  _ While Jake had thrown his full body into the Trapper, the action barely seemed to even budge the monster. Instead that cruel, gleaming mask turned on her new friend and he grabbed the boy by the neck, plunging his blade into him without a second thought. Jake gasped, blood spurting from his mouth, his eyes widening as the chill of death gripped him.

Meg didn’t know what to do other than  _ scream.  _ When the Trapper dropped Jake’s dead body to the ground, he cast a lingering look at Meg, then turned on the other woman, who was limping away desperately. Stunned by his decision to leave her alone, the red-head scrambled to her feet with the last of her strength, turned tail, and ran.  _ Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back,  _ she repeated over and over, feeling hot tears brim the corners of her eyes. Blinking them back, she continued running, hearing the screams of the dark-skinned woman in the distance. Jake was dead, the other girl was about to be, and if she didn’t find some means of escape, she would be too.

After what seemed like forever, Meg found a small hatch in the ground. It was oddly placed, and she doubted it led anywhere, but when it opened all by itself, seeming to beckon her with the black mist that exuded from it, she felt like she had no choice but to follow. Looking back, tears streaming down her face, she thought of the two unlikely friends she’d just made and the horrible fate they had suffered; eyes widened when she caught sight of the brute, standing not too far away, simply staring at her. His dark voice echoed in her mind.  _ “You’re just a scared little rabbit.” _

Anger filled her once more. “FUCK YOU!” she screamed at his figure in the distance, before leaping in, hoping the stupid hatch would take her anywhere but here.


	3. Bravery's Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Hope you all like this! WARNING: There's some foreplay in this one, no outright smut, but if you're not cool with sexual themes then you might wanna skip the last half or so. I also apologize in advance for any mistakes; I don't have any beta readers and probably don't catch everything myself.
> 
> Anywho - thank you so so much for reading and as always, I hope you like it!!

**_3\. Bravery’s Punishment_ **

**_[ Meeting 10; Springwood Elementary. ]_ **

  
  


Another trial, another challenge. After having been through countless games at the Entity’s behest, Meg knew the drill. You wake up in a strange place, you try to get out while a new bloodthirsty killer tries to sacrifice you, and you either die or you escape. Either way, you end up back at the campfire - either without a scratch or sporting black, bloody holes in your chest.

She was already sick of it - but this realm, a place the survivors called the Fog, was beginning to become home. A sick, twisted, nightmare of a home, but a home nonetheless. Mainly because of all the friends she’d made. No - they weren’t just friends at this point, they were  _ family.  _ She supposed constantly watching each other’s backs, constantly saving one another from death and coming out on the other side of dire, terrifying situations, had that bonding effect on people. 

Currently, Claudette, who Meg had met in her first trial, was sitting beside her, patching up her arm with some ointment and bandages. It would heal on its own - the Entity’s doing - but the ointment soothed the pain and the bandages hid the scars. Meg, in turn, used Claudette’s teachings to patch up a new friend they’d made - Quentin Smith, a teenager from a town called Springwood. As he took off his shirt, balling the material up in his hands anxiously, Meg spread gentle fingers over his back, her touch soothing on his bare skin. She was no healer like Claudette, but she tried her best to channel that energy as she scooped up some sticky ointment with her free hand, carefully spreading it over the gaping hook-wounds marring his skin. A groan came from him and he trembled beside her, but otherwise made no noise. 

When it was time to do the same to his chest, Quentin turned toward Meg, avoiding her gaze and still clutching his shirt in an iron grip. Again Meg’s touch was gentle; she couldn’t help her wandering eyes as she patched him up. Quentin seemed to be quiet, studious, helpful, and kind. In his very first trial he’d sacrificed himself to save Nea - a feat so noble that it had earned him instant friendship with the closed-off, streetwise graffiti artist. “How are you holding up?” Meg finally asked, voice quiet.

Quentin was equally quiet. “Well, I’ve got a hole in my chest… so I could be better.”

A small laugh left her. “I meant… like with all of this. In general.”

His blue-green eyes lifted to her face, his expression exhausted. “How are  _ you  _ holding up?” he asked, but she had a feeling that was an answer, not a question.

“I… uhm, not well,” she responded awkwardly, grabbing a few bandages, now having both arms free. “Though I guess I’m kinda used to it by now.”

“You never get used to  _ this,”  _ Quentin replied, his voice bitter.

* * *

At this point, trials were a reprieve; an escape. Because when he wasn’t in a trial, doing the bidding of the strange entity whispering in his ear, he was stuck on the grounds of the MacMillan estate, surrounded by all the pain and agony he’d caused others. He walked around with the voice of his father muttering in his ear:  _ “they’re weak. All weak. Cowards deserve to be disposed of. Show them you’re not weak. Show them how strong you are.” _

When Evan MacMillan was transported to some sort of lot with an old run-down building on it, he looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings. The building appeared to be a school of sorts. Eyes squinted behind his mask as he read the words:  _ Springwood Elementary. _

This was new.

Flashing lights on the other side of a chain-link fence caught his attention and upon further inspection he found it to be… a vehicle, of sorts. He’d been exposed to vehicles before, in Azarov’s garage, but had never remembered them this way before he’d been taken. They were entirely new to him - and he’d certainly never seen one like this, with flashing lights and a large opening in the back.  _ ‘Ambulance,’  _ he read, mild curiosity filling him. 

Turning, he plucked a bear trap from its spot in the grass and began his hunt. For a few minutes, Evan carefully and strategically placed traps all throughout the unfamiliar area, taking his time to analyze the area and all its pathways, obstacles, and scenery as he did; then, he searched for survivors.

It did not take long. Bloodlust filled him as he struck down the boy with the green jacket and the wild hair -  _ Jake,  _ he’d heard others scream. The boy did remarkably well neutralizing his expression, but he was afraid - they all were. 

And rightfully so.

Blood stained his overalls as Evan slung Jake’s limp body over his shoulder, taking him to one of the meat hooks that were spread all over the place. The sickening squelch of ripping flesh could be heard as the boy was delivered to his punishment; Even forced him down onto the hook, watching as the blunt tip pierced his chest near his shoulder. More blood splattered over his clothes. He didn’t care. He only knew he had a mission; the Entity, constantly whispering in his ear, never let him forget it.

The games continued, and every time he heard the signature  _ CLAP  _ of one of his traps, he swelled with emotion - although he couldn’t quite decipher what emotion it was. What he  _ did  _ know was that his father would be proud of him. Or… at least… some part of him hoped so. Evan had long ago recognized his father was a monster; but bad genes ran in the family.

Because Evan was a monster, too.

One by one, the little survivors went down like fleas. Their desperation for escape, for freedom, could not compare to his lust for blood. To the single-mindedness that swung his blade and quickened his step. Only one was left; and as he set sights on her, running right toward him, he watched her with a quirk of his head. The moment he’d first seen her… when they’d first come to this realm... he was struck by the odd red string connecting them. No matter how far away she was, he could always see it, tying them together; and he couldn’t possibly fathom why he was connected to this beautiful, stubborn,  _ weak girl.  _

She skidded to a halt when she spotted his massive form lurking in the trees, and a look of both fear and anger crossed her face.  _ “Go ahead. Take the hatch,”  _ he said, gesturing to the open trap-door in the ground beside him; black smoke bellowed out of it, spidery claws clacking around on the inside. He stood right beside it… much closer to it than she was.

Meg, as he’d heard other survivors call her, hesitated, her eyes moving between him and the hatch. Those lithe legs flexed, poised to run; something she did very well, he’d begrudgingly admit. “You’re just going to close it, so you might as well just  _ do it  _ and stop taunting me,” she growled, heat and rage in those blue-gray eyes of hers. His lips quirked into a brief, humorless smile under his mask; his eyes, roving and hungry, never left her. While the Entity wasn’t one to allow the killers much leeway in pursuit of their own personal whims, it did occasionally allow…  _ moments.  _ And he fully intended on making the most of each one - at least when it came to little Meg.

He lifted a booted foot, putting pressure on the open hatch and firmly closing it. 

Meg’s face paled, but she still managed a rather nasty glare as she took off in the opposite direction - toward one of the two gates. With power restored, she’d be able to get it open… if it wasn’t for one minor detail. Evan made it way after her, his strides long and purposeful, keeping a white-knuckled grip on his cleaver. Moments before he caught sight of her, he heard the satisfying  _ CLAP  _ of a trap, followed immediately by Meg’s blood-curdling scream. Evan approached, prying her foot from the trap and immediately taking her into his grasp, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. 

“Let go of me, you dumb bastard!” she screamed despite the blood dripping from her half-mangled ankle, her arms and legs flailing desperately. As Evan made his way to a hook, Meg’s struggles weakened and for a moment she flopped; and then the most unexpected thing happened.

The moment her hand grabbed his rear, Evan halted in his tracks and went still. Of all the things survivors had tried to get the upper hand, this took the proverbial cake.

_ Had she lost her damn mind? _

In that moment he made a split decision and veered off course, taking her away from the hook and into the front doors of the school. Of course she struggled anew, but it did little to sway him. Dumping her on top of a desk in one of the school rooms, he stood over her, staring down at her. His expression was hard, annoyed, jaw working under his mask as he debated on what to say, if anything. She’d crossed a line - then again, in these games of cat and mouse, were there really any lines  _ to  _ cross?

Finally:  _ “Have you lost your mind?” _

Meg looked up at him defiantly, body sprawled frozen across the desk, unwilling to move except for her eyes. He noticed the roving of her gaze up and down his body, and she quickly looked away. As if angry at herself for being curious; for being only human. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do,” she answered with a snarl. “I’m just disappointed it didn’t work.”

He stared at her for another moment, considering her.  _ “You’re brave… I’ll give you that,”  _ he finally rumbled, annoyance in his voice. As he peered at her through the holes in his mask, he couldn’t help but notice the way her body was sprawled out, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He would take as long as the Entity would give him.  _ “But bravery is often punished… Little Rabbit.” _

Her face visibly contorted at the nickname. She shivered, physically affected by his presence, it seemed; and he’d use that to his advantage. Evan advanced on her, his gaze suddenly much more predatory. “Just put me on a hook and be done with it, you bastard,” she growled. “I don’t want to play your games.”

_ “Who said this was a game?”  _ His broad shoulders tensed; his voice went low, rough, ragged.  _ “This is punishment.” _

As he moved in on her, his large body coming between her sprawled legs on the desk, he could practically  _ feel  _ her tense up against him, attempting to scramble back but running out of desk. His large hand reached out, grasping at one of her braids firmly. The light tug he gave wasn’t enough to hurt her, but it did make her wince. “Let GO!” Meg protested, but didn’t move to smack his hand away.

A rumble came from him. She was so small, so lithe, so… the presence of that damned red string caught his eye.  _ “Can you see it?” _ Evan asked suddenly without thinking.

Meg followed his stare, or tried to, confusion knitting her brows. “What the hell are you talking about, you dumb turtle???” 

His eyes narrowed, moving to her face. Wicked amusement curled his lip. _ “Dumb turtle,” _ he mused. _ “You mock me while you are at my mercy. Your bravery - and stupidity - is endless.” _

“You don’t  _ show  _ mercy,” she snarled. Her blue-gray eyes went to the large hand gripping her hair, and despite that boldness, he could see the fear in her eyes. Succulent terror. 

_ “You’re right, Little Rabbit,”  _ he growled, lips quirked sadistically.  _ “I don’t.” _

The hand in her hair went to abruptly grasp her throat, cutting off blood supply and partial air. She gasped, those lips parted so nicely to try and fill her lungs, those eyes widened in horror. That bravery was gone - and the sight of it made his blood burn in a way it never had since he entered the Fog. It reminded him of…  _ life. _

_ True life,  _ outside of this eternal hell.

His father uttered harsh praises in his ear, urging him to put her in her place. To show her what it meant to be afraid to question your superiors. To show her what the consequence was for being  _ weak.  _ Evan’s hand squeezed on her throat, seeing the bruises flower the tender skin, his hard body pressing right up against her - which earned another gasp from her. A scent caught his sharp nose and the smell of it brought forth a heady rumble low in his chest.

_ “You enjoy it,”  _ he growled, peering down at her through the eye-holes of that grinning mask, s hint of humor in his voice.  _ “And you hate yourself for it.” _

“I - I  _ don’t!!”  _ Meg managed to squeak out, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. “I’d  _ never  _ enjoy being with a monster like  _ you!” _

His lips quirked again. The index finger of the hand on her throat drifted up, tracing over her chin; over a soft pink lower lip bruised from stress-biting.  _ “You do,”  _ he growled, bucking his hips abruptly and earning a strangled whimper from the red-head.  _ “I can  _ **_smell_ ** _ you.” _

Urged by the little sounds she made and the thought of punishing her overt boldness planted in the forefront of his mind, Evan brought both hands to the girl’s running top and ripped it open with ease. The exposed skin had his mouth feeling dry, and with the way she was staring up at him, a mixture of fear, hatred, and hidden excitement in those eyes, the killer had trouble holding back from finding out if the Entity took away the pleasure of ravaging her insides. He went to grasp the soft, fleshy mounds he’d exposed and each squeeze sent a ripple effect through the both of them; Meg whimpered, guilt-ridden and conflicted, body squirming on the desk, while Evan snarled with barely-contained lust. The feel of stiffening pink twin peaks beneath the pads of his fingers brought him a pleasure matched only by the way the red-head’s face scrunched in a mixture of guilt and delight. 

Milky white eyes stared down at her from the holes in his mask, never leaving her face, her body. And that little red string remained ever-present as well; but he was far too intent on his prey now to be distracted by such a meaningless bauble. Rough hands slid down from her breast, slowly, slowly, leaving trails of dirt on her porcelain skin; each touch brought mixed sounds from the red-head, her back arching subtly, body eager for him despite her so-called hatred. 

The moment his fingers hooked in her pants, preparing to rip them down as well, black smoke began to surround the desk she was on, belching out from some void in the ground. Claws, clicking and clacking impatiently, ascended from the depths to grab Meg - and suddenly she was no longer squirming and mewling, she was screaming in fear and trying to scramble from the desk. 

Though incredibly frustrated, Evan stepped back to let the Entity take her. He was a pawn in this game as much as she was, as much as he hated that fact; any interference on his part would end very badly. So he watched with a blank expression and furiously clenched fists as she disappeared into the blackness, a hand extending upwards desperately -

\- though whether she was reaching for the heavens, or for  _ him,  _ he didn’t know.


	4. Hesitant Curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! Once again apologies for any possibly errors in continuity, grammar, or spelling; I don't have beta readers and don't catch all my own mistakes. THANK you for any encouragement/kudos and THANK YOU for reading! <3 Enjoy!

**_4\. Hesitant Curiosity_ **

**_[ Meeting 93; Yamaoka Estate. ]_ **

  
  


The tall, reedy grass swayed with a gentle breeze, but Meg felt no such cool rush on her skin. A side-effect of being a part of this absolute hell was that time and places had no meaning here; there was no such thing as weather, years, days, schedules, even wildlife; and the circle of life here was all kinds of fucked up.  _ Death was not an escape _ . Her expression betrayed her miserable musings, apparently, because from beside her Kate piped up in a soft whisper: “you alright, sugar?”

Meg gave a queasy nod. She hated this place; the Yamaoka Estate. She waited for the distant roar of the terrible, beastly Oni to reverberate throughout the entire courtyard. It would come any moment; she just knew it. As she and Kate snuck by the basement on the lower edge of the large shrine in the middle of the map, Meg suddenly felt…  _ cold.  _ A terrible shiver ran down her spine, leaving ice in her stomach, and the low, ominous chanting she heard coming from below was enough to make her quicken her step, eager to get away as soon as possible.

God,  _ she hated this place. _

Finding a generator wasn’t so hard; Kate was silent as she assisted Meg with it, getting on one side and crossing wires while Meg tweaked the machine’s innards, pulling a lever occasionally to test things. It was a slow process, but the two women knew what they were doing. Meg focused on her work, ignoring the cawing of the nearby crows and the sick feeling the basement had given her; keeping alert for the presence of the killer, she worked alongside Kate.

Until she heard the sickening  **_CLAP_ ** of a trap in the distance.

Her shoulders tensed, her breath escaped her, and suddenly the generator blew up in her face. Kate stared at the smoking contraption then back at Meg, visibly frustrated. Meg just continued working, but now she was fully distracted; though her pulse raced with fear, there was something else there too - her mind couldn’t help but wander back to her last interaction with the Trapper. It had been the single strangest thing that had happened to her in this nightmare world, and yet she frankly hadn’t been able to  _ stop  _ thinking about it. A killer… giving her a drawing he’d done,  _ of her. _

_ And she still had it. _

Hidden in her tent away from prying eyes, of course, but she looked at it often. And kept it safe. And she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she was so loathe to part with it. Meg had been through quite a few trials since then but this would be her first time coming face to face with him since that night, and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen. The logical side of her knew that he was a killer, this was his job, and that he would show her the same treatment he showed all of his other victims…  _ right?  _

She worked as quickly as she could, and once the lights came on and they heard the hum of the generator, the two women moved on to the next one, joining Ace in repairing it. “I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church,” Kate murmured anxiously. All three of them were wondering where the last member of their party was and why they hadn’t heard a scream yet. 

_ “Language,  _ Kate,” Ace chided from the other side of the generator, earning a giggle.

Meg’s mind remained on their enemy, the wheels turning incessantly. Why did he seem so…  _ sad?  _ When she’d stumbled upon him at the MacMillan Estate… the Trapper had looked…  _ tired.  _ Then again, everyone in this damn realm was tired, but she’d always been under the assumption that the killers - well -  _ lived for it.  _ Killers didn’t get tired; killers relished in the hunt. Killers  _ enjoyed  _ the endless slaughter.

_ Right…? _

Not-so distant screams yanked Meg from her questioning, and fear thrummed in her veins. The others perked up as well, horror in their eyes. “You beautiful goddesses stay here and continue on this hunk of junk while I play hero and go get Nea,” Ace said, humor in his words but not in his voice, pulling away from the generator and tipping his hat. 

As he turned to sneak off, Kate suddenly reached out and gripped his arm. “Careful, sugar,” she warned.

“Don’t you worry my little orchid, I’ll be back to butter your biscuit before long,” Ace replied with a wolfish grin. Kate’s brows unfurrowed and she let him go, cracking a small smile. It seemed that Ace was one of the only people who could ease Kate’s worried nature - Ace and Quentin. Both of them were quite close to the singing bird.

While Ace snuck off in an eastern direction, Kate set back to work and the chugging of the generator steadily quickened. Minutes dragged on. It was only the second  **_CLAP_ ** accompanied by Ace’s ragged scream that alerted them to the current situation. Kate’s head jerked up, panic in her eyes; though Meg was trembling from head to toe, she finished the generator and with a final pull of the lever it hummed to life. Standing and taking the blonde’s hand, hoping to steady not just Kate’s nerves, but her own, Meg began running. This was no time for sneaking around; they needed to get to Nea before she died, and Ace would be sure to follow if they didn’t act. “Help Ace,” the red-head panted, before giving her a shove off to the right and veering off to the left to get Nea off of the sacrificial hook. 

_ Run. Run. Run.  _ Her legs worked as hard as they could; as she raced toward where the streetwise girl hung, Meg could see the spines of the Entity encircling her, preparing to claim her viciously. Meg grit her teeth. She wasn’t going to get there in time. She wasn’t - Kate’s screams and cries halted Meg’s pace for just a moment, and that was enough to cement Nea’s fate. Moments later, Meg’s hands grasped for empty air and Nea was being dragged up into the sky, blood pouring from her body, dying gurgles coming from her. Meg, panic racing through her, didn’t waste a moment in veering to the right and racing for Ace… but she had a terrible feeling it was too late for him, too.

She came skidding to a halt at the figure standing before her. Kate was on the ground behind him, whimpering and attempting to crawl away. Meg could only spare the blonde on the ground a glance before her eyes glued to him.  _ The Trapper. _

He made no moves toward her; his rusted blade was covered in blood. Her friends’ blood. But Meg could only look at his face, hidden by that infernal mask. She probably looked like a deer in headlights, the way she stood frozen and wide-eyed, but Meg couldn’t help but wonder why he was cocking his head at her, or why his shoulders seemed to sag a little the moment he saw her.

Another brief glance at Kate told the red-head that the Trapper hadn’t put much effort into his kills. While Meg could never fully remember every detail of trials, she remembered the Trapper’s sadistic and cruel nature. 

This man seemed like a different person.

Meg finally remembered to breathe and she took a step forward - toward him, and toward Kate. Ace laid on the ground to the far left, but he’d stopped moaning. Stopped moving. She was afraid to look and see if he was still alive. “W-Why didn’t you kill her?” Meg asked suddenly, voice trembling. 

It took the killer a moment to finally look down at the blonde near his feet. He’d seemed to be focused on something near Meg’s shoulder, or maybe her arm, and it was distracting enough to delay his reply. Finally he looked back at Meg, jaw working behind his mask as if he was trying to figure out his response. When he finally spoke, Meg - and Kate especially - were both startled. “I… don’t know.”

Again Meg noticed how rusted and gravelly his voice was, rough with disuse; so far from the rugged bass she couldn’t seem to get out of her head despite her foggy memory. The more he stared at her, the more the red-head began to wonder what history she might have had with the Trapper -  _ Evan.  _ The name floated around in her mind, blurring the lines between black and white, right and wrong. Had something happened between them? Did he  _ remember? _

Kate let out a quiet groan, and at a glance Meg could tell she was losing too much blood. The killer hadn’t moved an inch - so warily, Meg crept around him, shivering when his eyes moved behind his mask to follow her, and she darted to Kate’s side. A shot of adrenaline and multiple gauze pads and bandages had the blonde up on her feet and they began running toward the hatch. Kate brandished the key she’d pocketed and hope filled them both. They’d get out of this. They’d make it out  _ alive. _

Suddenly Meg skidded to a halt and looked back over her shoulder at the monster behind them. He hadn’t moved - not a muscle.  _ Why hadn’t he come for them?  _ Was he even  _ trying? _

He must’ve seen the question in her eyes, but he didn’t deign to answer or even acknowledge it. He merely watched; and though she couldn’t see his expression behind that terrible grinning mask, she felt it, somehow, some way, that he had questions too. 

Meg turned away, assisting the battered blonde next to her in limping to the hatch as quickly as possible. As soon as it was unlocked, they hopped in and blackness overtook them.

* * *

The first thing Kate had done upon going back to the campfire was assist others in patching up Ace and Nea - especially Ace. The songbird would never admit it, but she had a soft spot for the little gray-haired weasel - and though Meg couldn’t fathom any attraction, she could see why that annoying personality of his  _ might  _ be charming to some. 

Everyone was shocked when Meg showed up without a scratch on her. Their first explanation was that she was simply too fast for the Trapper; but hearing Kate’s wide-eyed story about he’d simply…  _ given up  _ and let them go, all of the survivors were clamoring over one another to ask questions. Meg really didn’t know how to answer them, considering she was immensely confused herself, so she’d simply shrugged and said, “he was just…  _ standing there.” _

Meg eventually found an opportunity to retreat to her sleeping quarters; that trial had left her feeling lost, confused, and tired. Just as she tucked her head into her small, raggedy tent, a figure approached from behind, tall and imposing. Her instinctual reaction was to wheel around and face the Trapper, to demand what was going on, what he kept seeing between them,  _ why  _ he let her and Kate go; but when she glanced back over her shoulder, she only found Jeff, looking almost hesitant and bearing a piece of crackly parchment. Turning to him, Meg’s heart-rate settled before immediately spiking once more as she recognized what was  _ on  _ the parchment…

She snatched it out of his large hands and he left her take it, his touch unusually gentle for his size. He peered down at her, curiosity reflected in his deep brown eyes. “It flew out of your tent when the breeze picked up earlier,” Jeff said softly. “I wasn’t sure if it was yours, but considering…”

“T-Thanks,” she mumbled, clutching the paper to her chest - both to protect it… and to cover it up. 

“Did you draw it?” he asked. “It is… very nice.”

Meg could feel heat rising to her cheeks. She couldn’t even look at him. Stoic, yet kind Jeff; one of the most trustworthy survivors of the bunch… and she couldn’t even look at him. “Uhm - no, it was a gift,” she mumbled, quickly turning away to her tent. With a pause, she glanced back at him. “Thank you, though - for saving it. I… wouldn’t want to lose it.”

Jeff stared after her, obviously very curious about the situation, but he was no dummy and he knew pressing wouldn’t do any good. Meg was finally left alone to brood in her tent, laying on a dusty old pillow and staring at her own face drawn with coal. All of her previous questions burned in her chest; biggest of all…

_ Why? _


	5. Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter is a bit longer than the norm for these little logs, but I really hope you enjoy the cuteness in it. I thoroughly loved writing it. As always, apologies for any errors - I try to catch mistakes but I'm not always able to. THANK YOU all for reading, and ENJOY! <3

**_5.Sympathy_ **

**_[ Meeting 94; MacMillan Estate. ]_ **

  
  


Meg couldn’t help but wonder, over and over again as she jogged briskly through the misty woods,  _ why  _ the hell she had lost her mind. She’d always been brave, bold, even risky, but she couldn’t think of a single logical reason at the moment for why she was doing what she was doing.

But as she encroached on the grounds of the MacMillan Estate, the dark and dusky sky casting a sickly blue glow over her, all concerns melted, instead replaced with…  _ curiosity. _

That burning need for answers.

Clutching the drawing in the pocket of her sports jacket, the red-head stepped into the grounds, searching them for any sign of her query. That hulking figure had to be moping about somewhere, right…? Wasn’t this where he stayed when he wasn’t called upon by the Entity? 

Meg’s search didn’t take long. But the sight she was met with… 

Eyes widened in absolute shock and, on instinct, she rushed over to the panel. It was 8 feet high and five feet across, made of steel - and on it, with hundreds of nails, spikes, and other sharp objects sticking out of his body, was the Trapper.

_ Evan. _

Meg could only stare in horror for a moment. What…  _ what was this?  _ Was this torture from the Entity, or some weird self-inflicted punishment for his sins? A trembling hand slowly extended toward him - only to pause when she saw two milky white eyes shift down behind his mask to look at her. They were glazed over, barely registering her, and his massive body was heaving, struggling to go on.  _ “Who did this to you?”  _ she uttered, voice quivering. 

He only rumbled; the sound akin to a bear caught in a trap - a bear that had given up and accepted its fate.

She should’ve been  _ smiling.  _ She should’ve been relishing in the fact that this brutal monster, the one that had been killing her and her friends for god knows how long, was receiving his just rewards. He was paying atonement for all the horrible things he’d done - she should have been  _ filled with joy. _

Why could she only stare in utter dismay?

The longer she looked, the more she realized that the savage pieces of metal always sticking out of his scarred skin were identical to the ones she saw piercing him now. Pieces were put into place and Meg gasped at the realization that this was something that happened to him more than once. Pretty frequently, probably.

She wasn’t sure why she started moving - instinct guided her, not logic as she whipped forward, beginning to pull each and every item out of him. Tossing aside a bloody screwdriver that had been plunged into the side of his face near the edge of the mask, Meg continued her work at an almost frantic pace until he was free of the things pinning him to the cold metal panel - and eyes widened in panic as she realized he was falling.  _ Right onto her. _

Even her quick feet didn’t have time to react as the hulking man slumped off of the wall with a defeated rumble, and they fell right into the grass, his body covering hers entirely. Meg didn’t know what was more concerning; the fact that she could feel his blood seeping into her clothes, or the fact that his body felt extremely  _ warm,  _ like a weighted blanket. Trying to catch her breath and poking her head up above his massive, blood-stained shoulder to get fresh air, Meg felt her hands pressing against the bare skin of his chest, blood soaking her fingers and the material of his overalls. He seemed to be alive, she could tell from the animal-like breathing coming from behind the mask, but if he was conscious, he seemed to be too weak to move. 

Or so she thought. With a deep rumble, the Trapper stirred and slowly braced his hands against the ground on either side of her head, painstaking lifting his body. As she stared up into that grinning mask, she could see sweat mingling with the blood on his skin. It was in that moment the weight of truth settled on her:  _ killers weren’t invincible. _

And maybe… just  _ maybe…  _ killers, at least some of them, were forced into this just like the survivors were - given small offerings for their effort, and punished severely for their failures. “The Entity did this,” Meg found herself murmuring, still panting, lungs still screaming for air despite the fact that he’d removed his weight from her. Seeing the slight shaking of his arms, the red-head finally managed to scramble out from under him - and immediately he collapsed face-first on the ground with another bear-like grunt. 

As Meg struggled to her feet, she realized just how much adrenaline her body was pumping and her legs buckled slightly beneath her. Blue eyes darted between the killer’s body and the safety of the trees. This was a mistake. She needed to get out of here. She needed to end the questions, banish that curiosity, and make do with the hand that had been dealt to her. This was the Entity’s game and she had no business meddling. 

The trees were  _ safety,  _ beckoning her back to the campfire.

Gritting her teeth in frustration, Meg turned, grabbed the Trapper by the arm, and began attempting to haul him to his feet. “Get -  _ up!”  _ she growled, tugging hopelessly on the massive bicep. Her words seemed to stir him, because his head slowly lifted and his body began the painful process of lifting off the ground. It was mere brute strength that kept the killer on his feet; blood seeped from the multiple wounds littering his tanned, scarred skin and he allowed her to guide him to the large factory building in the middle of the estate. Settling him down at the bottom of the winding stairs, Meg set about looking for a med kit of any kind, wanting to smack herself even as she looked. Was she really going to  _ patch up a killer? _

_ Waste valuable supplies on someone who haunted her nightmares? _

Unlocking a chest in the corner near a furnace, she rummaged around and found one - dirty, old, and small, but it would do. Maybe. She took it back over to where the Trapper sat, seeming only half-there, and opened up the little kit, thankful that it was stuffed to the brim with bandages. There may have been enough to cover all of his wounds - but she wasn’t sure.

Crouching in front of him, Meg looked up into his milky eyes, hoping to find something there. Anything. She reached up, extending her fingers toward the mask on his face - and just before they brushed the material, he visibly flinched. Lowering her hand, she drew her attention to her supplies and pulled out a pack of bandages, ripping it open with her teeth. She started with his arms, wrapping gauze around each wound, thankfully most of them seemed minor with the exception of a few deep holes. “The Entity did this to you,” she repeated quietly as she worked, wrapping a bandage up to the shoulder. “Why…? Was it - was it because you…”

“... Let… you go?” his voice was rough; yet tired. Silence reigned as Meg shifted around him to work on the other arm, wrist to shoulder. 

“Yeah,” she finally whispered, hands dropping for a moment.

“... Yes.”

Meg swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, giving a shaky nod and returning to her ministrations. Moving around to his front, the red-head’s hands went to the buckles of his overalls - when two large hands, still warm with strength despite his injured state, grabbed her wrists harshly. Fear raced through her veins and Meg had to fight the screaming instinct to  _ run.  _ Breath shakily departed trembling lips and finally she mustered the courage to growl, “I need to look at your wounds, you dumb turtle. So are you going to let me, or are you going to be stubborn?”

“Dumb turtle…” he mused; and there seemed to be something in his face, even behind the mask, that changed. Like he was pondering a memory, one filled with both satisfaction and guilt. 

Meg’s blue-gray eyes were filled with insistent fire as she watched him. “Yes, dumb turtle; you’re going to let me wrap up your wounds,  _ and  _ you’re going to answer my questions…  _ Evan.” _

Meg could feel the way his breath caught in his broad chest, and the narrowing in his pearly eyes told her she’d truly caught him off-guard; finally, he released her hands and she wasted no time in unclipping his overalls and moving to get a sewing needle and thread from the med-kit. Turning back to the man, Meg paused - and though she couldn’t explain why, the sight of his bare body made her mouth go dry and suddenly fumbling fingers dropped the needle she’d been about to thread. “Fuck,” she mumbled irritably, stooping down to scramble for it and threading the needle with anxiety in her chest. 

“There’s a, uhm, a really bad gash on your chest so I-I have to, uhm -” 

“It’s… okay.”

Meg felt her mouth go dry again and she had to clear her throat in order to compose herself. She was going to  _ have  _ to look at his chest… all that broad, twitching muscle… in order to sew him up, right? Jesus, why was a bit of skin having an effect on her like this? Especially  _ his  _ skin? She’d seen Dwight’s, Jake’s, even David’s bare chests plenty of times and she’d never been such a stupid blushing schoolgirl about it. “Get it together, Meg,” she growled, moving her hands to the expanse of his chest. The moment her fingers met his skin, heat flared in her limbs and she fought back a sharp inhale. The touch had the same effect on him, as well, because she could feel him tensing under her hands. It took a moment for her to begin sewing up the gash over his right pectoral, but she had to admit after looking at the finished product that she was pretty proud. 

A pleased grin quirked her lips as she moved back. “I do a pretty damn good job if I do say so myself,” the red-head exclaimed with a cluck of her tongue.

“Thank you,” came a rumble.

Her eyes lifted to his masked face and it suddenly struck her that she hadn’t felt fear the entire time she’d been here - only concern. Concern for  _ him.  _ That itself was incredibly strange. Meg had come here to ask questions, and here she was tending to a killer. 

How the tables turned.

Her cheeks warmed slightly, and she opened her mouth to respond - then noticed the gash on his cheek, dried blood having streaked all the way down his chin and neck. Gnawing on her bottom lip, she finally leaned closer to him. “I’m going to need to look at your face,” she said forwardly.

Evan, for the first time she’d ever seen, looked completely taken aback. Almost  _ hesitant.  _ “It’ll… be fine,” he managed. 

Meg’s brows furrowed, blue-gray eyes narrowing dangerously. “No, it  _ won’t,”  _ she insisted, reaching up for the mask.

That strong hand caught her wrist again, his grip so tight it brought forth a whimper from her. Hearing the sound seemed to ignite something in him; leaning back once more, Evan abruptly let her go as if he’d been burned. Like… like he was afraid to hurt her. Which was absolutely  _ ludicrous,  _ considering their circumstances. The flash of those white eyes behind the mask had Meg watching him with increasing suspicion. “What was that?” she finally demanded. “What is going ON here? What history do I not know about? Why do you  _ look at me like that??” _

He stared at her.

“UGH!” She threw her hands up, exasperated.  _ “Say something, you big dumb turtle!” _

“You don’t… see it,” he finally rumbled. “The… red… string.”

Meg’s brows furrowed. “Red string…?”

“It… connects us,” he explained, sounding unsure himself. “Always has.”

Curiosity brimmed in her blue-gray eyes. “Where is it now…?”

A large hand lifted. Meg’s first instinct was to cower, to flee the painful strike, but nothing came. Instead a single finger pressed into her chest, right over her heart, before slowly moving across their bodies to his own - tapping right on the pectoral above a large scar. The insinuation that a red string connected their hearts was ridiculous, but he seemed so earnestly confused that Meg somehow doubted he was lying. “Is it… is it like that for all survivors and killers? Like.. Dwight and the Wraith? O-Or Nea and the Nurse…?”

He shook his head solemnly. “Don’t know.”

“Helpful,” she muttered, heaving a sigh. “Listen; I’m still going to need to look at the gash on your face.” At his hesitation, she added quietly, “please… Evan.”

The name once again caught him so off-guard that when Meg lifted her hands to grasp the mask, he made no move to stop her. Pulling and lifting, the red-head gasped at the sight that awaited her - so shocked that the mask slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. 

The Trapper was…  _ so deceptively human.  _ His face was strong and masculine, with a hard jaw, thick furrowed brows, a hawk-like rigid nose, and slanted milky-white eyes that shifted down to narrow on her face. His full lips were set in a thin line, expressing his discomfort. Clamping her mouth shut and trying to hide her gawking, Meg moved in and grabbed some gauze, dabbing the blood away from his temple area and cleaning the wound the best she could. She wasn’t sure if killers healed quickly like survivors did, but she  _ did  _ know that patching up the wounds certainly made them  _ feel  _ better. 

Unfortunately for her, stitching up the gash required Meg to get close, uncomfortably so, and she tried not to let her mind stray to the immense body heat she felt coming from the beast of a man, or the way his chest rumbled all animal-like with each deep breath he took; or the warm puffs of air against her neck. A missed stitch earned a growl from him and, while she apologized, the red-head couldn’t help but notice how while she’d felt the heat of the Trapper’s body before, on multiple occasions, the surrounding circumstances and the way it made her  _ feel  _ were entirely different. 

“I still have the sketch you gave me,” she blurted, surprising even herself with the confession. Meg fought back a hot, embarrassed blush as she felt Evan’s eyes shift over and up to look sideways at her. She knew she was digging herself into a deeper hole, but she couldn’t seem to stop the rest from coming out like word vomit. “I-I’ve been thinking a lot about it all, and it feels like there’s some… I don’t know, history. We’ve been in the Fog for a long time and - I don’t know if this affects killers, too, but - we survivors can’t really remember specific details from inside the trials. Maybe it’s a way to keep us terrorized, to keep the pain and the agony fresh and new for each match, but… is it the same for killers, too? Do you forget what you’ve done when you leave the trial? Or… are there… things that have happened that I can’t seem to… remember?”

To her surprise, the hulking man sighed deeply. It was a tired sigh, an exhale filled with very telling emotions. Without a word from him, she knew:  _ he did remember. _

“What happened? What do you know??” she pressed anxiously, finishing her stitch impatiently and drawing back to look him in the eye. 

Shockingly, he wouldn’t even look at her. White eyes stared at the ground with focus, his lips thinner than ever. Ice filled her heart and Meg inched back, that familiar fear creeping into her veins. Judging by his expression, it couldn’t have been anything good - but really, why was she so surprised. This was  _ the Fog -  _ the only good thing to  _ ever  _ come out of this hellish nightmare was the friends she’d made. 

Standing to her feet, she warily looked at him. He wasn’t going to answer her, so why bother? Why the hell was she even  _ here?  _ The more she thought about it, the more Meg realized this was a mistake. Talking to him was a mistake. Seeing him -  _ patching him up  _ was  _ beyond  _ stupid. 

Just as Meg turned away to leave, she heard his deep, gravelly voice. “Your hair.”

She froze. Glancing back over her shoulder, she eyed him. “... What?”

Evan finally lifted his eyes, looking so exhausted and forlorn, to gaze at her face. “Your hair… was the first… thing I… noticed.”

Meg’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? I know it’s matted and dirty, but -”

“No,” he interrupted, sounding more firm. Insistent. “It is… beautiful.”

Blue-gray eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously on him. The red-head didn’t know what was worse: the fact that the Trapper had called her hair beautiful, or that she’d hung around him long enough for him to say it. “Are you serious?” she began. The rest came up before she could stop it, fingers gripping the parchment in her pocket, and with each word her voice grew louder and louder: “This is  _ crazy!  _ Do you hear yourself?! Do you realize how impossible it is for us to - to - to  _ get along?!  _ We’re on opposite sides of the playing field, and not only did you  _ draw me,  _ but I  _ kept it,  _ and - here I am,  _ sewing up your wounds?!  _ And you’re saying - you’re saying my hair is  _ beautiful,  _ I didn’t even know you knew the  _ meaning  _ of such a nice word, but you’re saying it, and looking at me with something other than a killer’s eyes, and -”

“Little Rabbit,” he interrupted again; when Meg paused her tirade to look back at him, she found what she thought might’ve been a hint of a smile crooking his full lips. “You… talk too much.”

A frustrated growl left the red-head and she turned away, marching off the property and not bothering to look back over her shoulder.

As she headed into the woods, however, the sudden thought struck her that, for the first time since being dragged into this hell, she actually felt  _ safe  _ enough to do so.


	6. Animal Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again folks! Shorter chapters mean quicker updates - I hope you all continue to enjoy as I fumble around with this anthology, attempting to display my love for these characters and this series. THANK YOU all for reading!

**_6\. Animal Instinct_ **

**_[ Meeting 32; Léry’s Memorial Institute. ]_ **

  
  
  


_ “How long did you know?” _

_ Those eyes were watching him again; those horrible, wicked black eyes that represented anger, hatred, greed - but also power… strength… fortitude. Sometimes Evan was grateful to have received his mother’s deep green eyes… other times he wondered if having dark eyes like his father would make him less weak. “I… I didn’t,” he stammered, looking up at the dark figure looming over him. _

_ “If you’re going to lie, at least be  _ **_good_ ** _ at it,” Archie MacMillan hissed, raising a hand. _

_ Evan braced himself for the pain, but did not whimper, did not flinch. That would be showing weakness and would only make the beatings worse. He had to be strong, accept his punishment without so much as blinking. Then - maybe - his father would look at him as anything other than a maggot. _

_ The fist came down and pain bloomed across his cheek; at fifteen years old he’d had more than a lifetime’s share of these beatings. He knew what to expect. Looking straight at the ground and not daring to let a groan escape his throat, Evan took each strike Archie laid upon him. _

_ He lied. He knew about the Union. He’d been helping his friends - Bob, Jim, Drew, and others - even though his father had told him not to. Told him speaking to the maggots - making friends - was for worms. Powerless people who aimlessly floated along in life, not those born for greatness. _

_ And so he sat, accepting his punishment. After all, he deserved it. _

* * *

Anger twisted the killer’s gut as he strode forward, clutching his machete in an iron grip. It seemed the Fog was no escape from the horrors of his life before it, and his father’s wicked voice never left him, constantly commandeering from his shoulder like the devil. He’d long since accepted the fact that he was a monster and his soul - whatever fraction he’d been born with - had been taken away by both genetics and his father’s cruelty. 

And the Entity now manipulated him to its heart’s content. 

The Trapper - after all the things he’d done, both here and in the real world, he no longer had any right or desire to be referred to by his former name - carefully and methodically placed a bear trap underneath a windowsill as he moved further into the treatment center of Léry’s Memorial Institute. He hated this place; it was cramped, dusty, and proof of the Doctor’s debauchery was around every corner. The Trapper much preferred the open skies and woodsy aura of Autohaven… or, dare he admit it, his own home. Mixed feelings swelled in his chest; the MacMillan Estate was familiar, but filled with a myriad of painful memories that constantly stirred his brain. 

Shaking himself out of it, he lurked around a corner, hearing the telltale sounds of a half-working generator. If he could guide the frightened little survivor toward that window, it would be an easy catch. Looking through a set of windows and an open doorway, he found not one, but two of them working hard on the machinery; and one of them was his  _ Little Rabbit.  _ He should have known - he could see that ever-present red string coming out of his chest and stretching along the hallway and around the corner. And he could see the other end of it… attached to her. 

He still didn’t know what it really was or why it connected them, and perhaps he never would. What he  _ did  _ know was that the petite, lithe red-head had fully captured his attention; something of an obsession, even. Only carefully controlled countenance kept the Entity from intervening further and keeping her from him. With the girl was a boy with shaggy brown hair, a dark blue jacket, and a little cap on his head; the Trapper did not know his name, but he’d seen the teen before - and he seemed very close to Meg. 

The Trapper watched the two for much longer than he should’ve as they chatted amiably with one another, eyes darting between the generator’s innards and each other; the big smile that Meg flashed, even in such a dangerous situation, didn’t go unnoticed - not by the boy, and not by the killer silently stalking them. It was such a Shape thing to do, stalking, certainly not the Trapper’s style, but for some reason his eyes remained glued to them. 

And the burning anger in his chest felt completely foreign.

Meg’s blue-gray eyes fluttered slightly and she laughed quietly once again, those eyes shining with warmth when she looked at the boy. “Quentin,” he heard over the growing roar of the generator, “you can’t worry about us when we don’t even know who the killer is yet.”

He was not sure what their relationship was to one another, but he didn’t like the way the boy seemed to draw a smile out of her, or the way her eyes flickered to his face so kindly. He didn’t like the attention she gave the teen. The scrawny… little…  _ maggot. _

The bright lights of the finished machine dragged Evan from his enraged reverie and he moved from behind the corner, his footsteps a heavy thud. Purpose heaved his broad chest, fury flared his nostrils, and he was intent on grabbing  _ one  _ survivor. 

If only another hadn’t gotten in the way. A hairy man that wasn’t as tall as the Trapper but very solidly built seemed to have been trying to sneak by and the end of the killer’s blade met his flesh instead of Quentin’s. A growl left the hunter and he shoved the injured man aside, those sure and steady footsteps following the teen boy’s trail. He could not explain the feeling burning in his chest, or the red that tinged his white eyes unlike any of the Entity’s normal rage, but it was all-consuming and he suddenly found that he didn’t care who else escaped - Quentin would surely die the most painful death the Trapper could muster. 

Meg was long-gone, and Quentin wasn’t far behind her. It took a quickening of his pace and eluding a few thrown pallets to catch up with the teen - and just as he raised his machete to swing, the boy was tugged out of the way by a girl wearing blue, with blonde-ish hair and flashing, dangerous eyes. The Trapper knew exactly who she was, though a name eluded him; she was one of the bravest of them all. One of the only survivors who would be so bold as to do exactly what she was doing right then.

“Pick on someone your own size,” the blonde girl hissed, reaching up and stabbing a shard of glass into the killer’s shoulder before he could react. Pain bloomed under his skin but he could do nothing more than grunt, stunned by the sheer bravery of the act. The girl was able to usher his query away, down a hallway toward the main middle treatment room while he stared down at the glass sticking out of him.

Finally he yanked it from his skin, dark, inky blood running down his arm, and he continued in his pursuit. Around other parts of the institution he could hear generators being completed, and he wasn’t sure how many were left, but it wasn’t too many. They were close to their goal, and it was because he’d wasted time on his obsession: the red-head. Still, that burning unexplainable rage filled him from head to toe, and he knew now that he wouldn’t stop chasing Quentin even if he wanted to.

The boy did not deserve the Rabbit’s attention; he was  _ weak. Miniscule.  _ And he needed to be put in his place.

The pleasing  **_CLAP_ ** of a bear trap came from somewhere to his right, and the killer veered off in that direction. To his absolute satisfaction, the very person he wanted was caught in that trap -

\- and the object of his obsession was currently trying to release his mangled foot, tears in her eyes. “Come on,” she said, voice shaking. “I’ve got you. You’re getting out of here if it’s the last thing I do!”

She looked up with fear in her wide blue-gray eyes as he approached, and he stopped, stalled by that ever-present annoying red string between them. Meg’s attempts grew more fervent and she finally released Quentin’s foot from the trap - and at that moment, the Trapper found his rhythm and stepped forward, grabbing the back of the boy’s jacket and lifting him clean off the ground. Meg uttered a scream, one of both fear and protest - and he wasn’t sure what possessed her to be so bold, but she flew in on him, kicking and hitting every part of him she could reach. 

The hand wielding his machete stiffened. Dropping the weapon momentarily, the killer used a bare hand to shove her out of the way and down she went, like a fly. Though her bravery was assuredly amusing, this was about taking out his rage on the cause of it. She was of no consequence at that moment. 

Quentin was flailing, trying his best to break free, but the Trapper held him tight, moving the now-free hand to his throat and gripping, squeezing. Fearful yells died into choked-off squeaks and the boy’s hands went to slap at his arm desperately.  _ “Pathetic,”  _ the killer growled animalistically, only sparing a glance down at Meg who sat slumped against a wall, looking faint.  _ “You’re a coward. A groveling worm. Go ahead, boy; beg for your life.” _

The boy attempted to speak; among the gasps for air, he did manage a few words, which shook the killer to his core: “P-Please… don’t… hurt… Meg!”

_ “The girl…”  _ he murmured, rough bear-like voice taking on a different tone.  _ “No. Only you will die today.” _

With that, Quentin’s movements grew slow, sluggish - as if he’d given up completely. It was then that the Trapper saw that this boy didn’t care about his own life so much as he did everyone else’s. It was that kind of self-sacrifice that separated humans from monsters.

Monsters like himself.

He threw the boy into the opposite wall and a sharp crunch was heard as his back hit it. Taking a bear-trap from his belt and approaching the whimpering teen, the killer carefully set it open on the ground, pushing down until he heard the click, and, still seething with rage, he grabbed Quentin by the hair and shoved his face down into the trap.

The sickening crack of the trap splitting his head was accompanied by Meg’s blood-curdling screams, and within moments she was struggling to her feet and stumbling away. Standing up, boots quickly becoming soaked with blood, the Trapper merely watched her go, a strange myriad of emotions in his chest. Why such rage at the mere sight of this boy attracting her attention? Why did he seem so dead-set on her when none of the other killers of this realm seemed to have the same obsession - other than the Shape? And still the situations were different because the tall, masked stalker’s obsession had come  _ with him  _ from his own world - the girl with the blonde hair and the dangerous eyes. The Trapper was positive he had never seen his own red-headed query before in his life. 

If he had, he would have remembered.


	7. Selfless Protection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // Hello folks! Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this spicy new chapter. PLEASE BE WARNED there are slightly NSFW scenes in this one. Not full smut, but suggestive. Ish. Also violence. Anyways, THANK YOU all for leaving kudos and commenting and such, and ENJOY!

**_7\. Selfless Protection_ **

**_[ Meeting 102; Mount Ormond Resort. ]_ **

The bite of the snow was enough to make Meg wish she’d been more prepared, although that was an impossible expectation considering they never knew where they would end up. Staring up a large log cabin, she wished she at least had some _boots_ or something. Zarina Kassir, a relatively new survivor that had proven to be extremely kind and witty, unlooped her scarf from around her neck and carefully wrapped it around Meg’s neck and shoulders. The wooly fabric was warm, comforting, and smelled like the documentarian’s perfume; breathing in the scent and thanking the Lebanese woman quietly, Meg got to work on the nearby generator while Zarina snuck off. 

The longer she messed with the wires on the side of the machine, trying to get it to start, the more worried she got; she hadn’t heard the awful ringing of the Wraith’s bell, the eerie zapping of the Doctor’s electrical powers, or the howling of the Oni… or god forbid, the **_CLAP_ **of any of Evan’s traps.

Evan?

Since when did she start calling him that?

A breath of frustration left the red-head, shooting out in a white puff in the frigid air. Ormond Resort was a massive area, perfect for stretching her legs and seeing just how fast she could really run - but it was also dangerous, and a brief glance down at her meager tennis shoes told her she could very well slip in the snow if she wasn’t careful.

_“Well well well.”_

Meg froze. Though she hadn’t heard the voice too many times, she knew it well. Still holding wires, she slowly turned her head to look at a masked figure peering down at her. The grin in his voice matched the one on his bloodied mask, and he wielded a small, razor-sharp knife, toying with it between his fingers. The Legion were some of the nastiest killers she’d come across in this hell-hole; they not only enjoyed the killing… they were extremely bloodthirsty - especially their quick, snarky, ambitious leader; Frank. She didn’t know the names of most of the killers, never bothered to, but every time he killed her, he looked her in the eyes and made sure she remembered it. Even when specific trial memories were foggy, she could never forget his laugh and his insults as he stabbed her.

A shiver rolled down her spine; one that had nothing to do with the weather. “What do you want, you wrinkly mushroom?” she demanded, sounding braver than she felt.

A snicker left him. The moment he took a step closer, Meg found herself reeling back, stepping around and behind the generator to put something between them. Frank approached the generator, scraping the tip of his knife along the metal, seemingly unbothered by the horrible scraping sound it caused. “You know, for a weak little bitch with a miserable track record on staying alive, you sure do run your big mouth,” he said quaintly, tilting his hooded head. “I almost wish I had a needle and thread - that way I could sew it shut. I guess I’ll just have to make do with cutting out your liver. What do you say? You gonna run like you always do? You might be able to out-run one of those massive fucking fools like the Shape, or Anna, but _me?”_ With that, he prodded the knife against his own chest. His voice went low and icy. “I’m the only killer that can keep the fuck up. Go ahead; _try out-running me, you vapid bitch.”_

Meg swallowed the lump in her throat. His insults meant nothing - Frank always talked out of his ass - but his threats… she _knew_ he could make good on them. She didn’t want to call his bluff… because it wasn’t a bluff. It was plain and simple fact. Her blue-gray eyes darted around, searching for an escape route; there was a pallet behind her, and a window she could vault through to get into the cabin. That would have to do. Boldly, she growled, “Go suck a dick, _Frank.”_

And she ran. 

As soon as Meg got on the other side of the pallet she slammed it down with all the force she had, and she heard his pained grunt as it hit him on the top of his head. Frank was rather small and petite compared to giants like the Doctor or… _Evan,_ but by god he was fast. He was the fastest of them all. And he would inevitably catch up with her.

But if any survivor stood a chance of out-running him, it was Meg.

She didn’t waste any time in darting for the window. Glancing back, she saw the killer shake himself out of it, body writhing in a frenzy, and he slid over the pallet quickly to come after her, knife raised. No other killer bothered to try and glide over pallets; they were all far too heavy or too awkward to do so. But Frank was lithe and lightweight and compact, and she had to admit, it was impressive. It set him apart. It made him _dangerous._

Through the window she went, veering off away from the generator Zarina was working on along with Jake. “Come on, _asshole!”_ Meg taunted despite the panic racing in her heart; if he got distracted from his goal of chasing her, he’d very likely go after her friends on that generator and she couldn’t have that. Heading right for another window, she called back, “I thought you were _fast!_ You’re about as fast as a damn sloth, you tiny little _freak!”_

A growl of rage left the figure racing after her, and just as she grabbed the ledge and swung her legs over, she felt the bite of a knife pierce her shoulder. A scream left her; raw and agonizing as pain bloomed throughout her whole body, shocking her. Dots danced in the corners of her vision and she stumbled in the snow, the bottoms of her shoes unable to find traction on the slick surface; before she knew it she was sprawled across the ground with the weight of the killer’s body on her back. Frank’s heavy, animal pants echoed in her ear as he breathed down her neck, and she could hear the sadistic satisfaction in his voice as he muttered, “who’s the little freak now?”

Meg could only whimper, the pain of the stab wound threatening a black-out. In moments she felt the absence of his weight and was forcefully rolled into her back. Frank straddled her, and looking at him now she could see that the corner of his mask had broken off, probably due to the pallet she’d slammed on his head. One wicked hazel eye looked down at her as he moved the knife from hand to hand, her very own blood staining the blade. All around them she could hear a few generators go off, signaling their completion; despite the fact that she was probably going to die here, she felt some satisfaction that she’d stalled him enough for her friends to possibly make it out alive.

“You linger on me too long… and you’re going to lose this match,” Meg grunted, squirming beneath him.

Frank giggled. “Mmm. You wouldn’t get it because you’re a pathetic little meat scrap, but it’s not always about _winning_ the game.” With that he leaned down over her, one hand braced at the side of her head while the other pressed the tip of the knife to her cheek, bearing in. “It’s how much you _enjoy it.”_

Meg turned her head away, a hand coming up to swat at him as hard as she could. “Little _cunt!”_ The lithe killer growled as his mask clattered to the cold ground. Able to see his face now, Meg was shocked at how… _young_ he looked. He couldn’t be much older than her; his features were boyish and quite charming, except for the black kohl smudged around his glittering hazel eyes. Piercings defiled his ears, eyebrow, nose and lips and she could now clearly see the tattoos that crawled up his neck and chin. 

Truth be told, he looked like nothing more than your average street punk.

Meg’s eyes narrowed up at him. “Well, look at the high school dropout,” she sneered.

Frank’s smile only twitched a little, but his eyes hardened, turning venomous. “I don’t guess you ever got to graduate, either,” he responded smoothly. “Your weak ass was dragged here, _just for me._ So I could kill you _over… and over… and over.”_

Meg's eyes narrowed in fury and she lurched, mustering up all the saliva she could and spitting on his face defiantly. She’d honestly expected anger - rage - for him to just _get it over with and kill her._

Instead, he reached a hand up, and with a smirk that would have been gut-wrenchingly sexy in any other situation, he slowly wiped the spit from his cheek and brushed the digits over his tongue - which, she discovered, was also pierced. Her stomach lurched and she couldn’t tell whether it was out of desire or disgust. “Joke’s on you, little girl, I’m into that shit,” he taunted, bringing those spit-covered fingers down to her face to drag them along her chin. “Next time, _aim for my mouth.”_

Bile rose in the back of her throat and a fresh wave of pain clenched her shoulder. Jerking her head away, Meg grit her teeth. “Just kill me and get it over with, you little fuck boy.”

“Fuck boy?” Frank mused, pressing the edge of his knife against her throat. A nasty grin contorted his lips. “Don’t flatter yourself, Red - though I guarantee you… if you were lucky enough…” He leaned down, bringing his lips to her cheek. Meg squeezed her eyes shut, heart pounding in her chest. This was it. He was going to kill her. As Frank’s tongue slithered slowly down her skin, tracing along her jaw, a ripple of electricity went down Meg’s spine. Fear? Anger? Disgust? 

He paused near the shell of her ear, his hot breath bringing goosebumps to her skin. His voice was silky, even charming despite his vicious nature. “I’d be the best _fuck_ you ever had.”

Then the pain came. His knife had snuck down her arm and he dug it in, piercing the flesh and eliciting a high-pitched scream from her. Pain, pain, pain; all she could think about was the blistering fire coursing through her body, stemming from her arm. Suddenly the weight withdrew from her body again and when Meg managed to crack open her eyes, she found Frank standing to his feet and staring directly at Jake, who had a rock in his hand and had presumably just thrown one. “You’re a sick fuck,” the survivor said, mouth pressed in a thin line.

“Yeah, I am,” Frank replied, giving Meg a little kick as he stepped over her body, advancing on Jake. “Wanna be next, animal fucker??”

Jake’s expression hardened even more. “You’re right,” he retorted. “I’d rather fuck an animal than even look at your ugly face.”

Frank’s expression contorted into ugly rage and he held up his knife. “You better start running, because when I catch you, I’m going to fucking _enjoy_ ripping out your spine and feeding it to you, you slanty-eyed little shit bag.”

Meg’s vision faded in and out of focus. Jake ran and Frank followed, growling curses. Strong hands helped her to her feet and her vision faded in to see Zarina peering at her intently, slinging her good arm over her shoulder and helping her out of the area. “We’ve got all the gens done, thanks to you,” the Lebanese woman said, ushering her along.

Meg’s voice was faint from blood loss. “I’m sorry, I… got blood on your scarf.”

“Just pay for my dry cleaning,” Zarina muttered as they walked. The gates weren’t too far away, and she could see David powering them, looking around diligently to make sure Frank wasn’t on their tail. It seemed Jake had his full attention - at least for the moment.

Zarina let Meg rest against a nearby rock and started trying to patch her up while they waited for the gate to open. “That Jake is a good lad,” David murmured. “And Legion is a right goddamn piece o’ garbage.”

“He…. he _licked_ me,” Meg said suddenly, drawing surprised stares from the other two. Glancing up at Zarina, the red-head continued: “that's… not normal for killers… is it…?”

No response. David released the lever as the gate opened, and Zarina helped her to her feet once more and began ushering her to the gate. David lingered before departing to check on Jake; no man left behind, he always said. Meg stared at the gate weakly as she got closer. She thought she was surely going to die this round, and here she was heading right for safety.

Until agony sliced into her back and down she went. 

Meg screamed. Zarina screamed, going down beside her. Blood pooled around them and, whimpering, adrenaline taking over, Meg began weakly crawling for the edge. For the safety of the campfire. To get away from this _lunatic._

Leaving Zarina to moan and tremble on the cold ground, Frank approached Meg and stepped on her, pressing his shoe right into the stab wound on her back and relishing in the loud cry that came from her. “Now what did I tell you, you little bitch?” He sneered, digging in. “It’s not always about _winning._ Didn’t you get the message?”

He picked her up with surprising strength and hauled her over his shoulder; Meg was too weak at this point to even struggle. She merely whimpered, tears streaming down her face as he carried her to a sacrificial hook. As the killer shoved Meg onto the hook with great force, blinding agony split through her whole body. Vaguely in the distance she thought she heard raw screaming - then realized it was herself. Her consciousness went in and out, the pain threatening to both keep her awake and put her out. 

Through blurred vision, she saw… 

_Evan?_

Was the pain so bad that she was hallucinating?

No, she quickly figured out; this was real. She didn’t know how he’d gotten there or why, but the giant bear of a man came up behind Frank, who was staring at his work with a cruel grin, and sent his machete straight down into the smaller killer’s shoulder. A screech came from Frank as he clutched at the gaping wound and writhed, immediately going down to the ground. Evan didn’t stop. He hacked at him a few more times until blood stained the white ground, their clothes, everything; then with a single hand, he grabbed Frank by the scruff of his jacket and lifted him right into the air silently. Frank kicked his legs and punched with his fists, but Evan simply looked up at him through that grinning white mask, his grip hard.

Finally: _“Do… not… touch… her.”_

“FUCK you, you oversized, dumb ass Mister Clean looking motherfucker,” Frank yelled, spitting the blood in his mouth. 

In, out. Meg felt the weariness overtake her. Through dim eyes she saw Evan drop the lithe killer and approach her, large hands reaching out; a disembodied scream left her as the ragged metal of the hook withdrew from her shoulder. Suddenly she felt warmth enveloping her, and while it didn’t take the anguish away, it helped. Bleary blue-gray eyes lifted to see that Evan was carrying her in his arms deceptively gently, and he was heading right for the gate where Jake and David stood, absolutely stunned. 

He stared straight ahead as he carried her, his strong arms wrapped around her body securely under her back and her knees. She felt the pain ebb, replaced with utter warmth. _Safety._ “Why?” She croaked, staring up at his masked face.

He merely rumbled, his footsteps slow and sure not to jostle her. Meg felt herself being carefully transitioned to David’s embrace; but even as the muscled survivor ushered her out the gate and into the abyss, she found herself looking back at Evan.

He stood there, silent, watching.

In the midst of the Fog that entered her brain, threatening to knock her unconscious, Meg fully realized… 

_He had saved her._


	8. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND ANOTHER ONE. Hope you all enjoy! I apologize for any typos or errors; I don't have any beta readers. Again, THANK YOU ALL for reading!!

**_8.Trapped_ **

**_[ Meeting 103; Unknown. ]_ **

_ Pain. _

_ Pain bloomed through his whole body, beginning in his chest and flowering out through his limbs. From the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes, fire burned him, mutilated him, curdled his soundless screams of agony.  _

_ And the entire time, he heard the voice of his father, taunting him, berating him, like lashes on his skin.  _

_ This was it. This was the harshest punishment he’d ever received at the hands of the Entity; this was so excruciating that he was sure he would wither away into nothing and simply… cease to exist.  _

_ Then again, he supposed this was well-deserved. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to march onto the snowy grounds of Ormond and rip the Legion to shreds, to - dare he say it -  _ defend  _ the little red-head to which he seemed so attached… but nothing like that had ever been done before. The other killers had to have been talking about it. Whispering. Confused, or angry, or even bewildered. The killers killed, and the survivors survived. It was a firm line that neither party ever crossed, the one common rule in his hellish wasteland;  _ **_know your role, do your job._ **

_ But he remembered the way she felt in his arms, the way she stared up at him with a mixture of confusion and awe in those blue eyes, and he grit his teeth to bear his punishment, because if given the choice, he would do it again. He would blur the lines - no, break them - and would come to her aid whenever he possibly could. _

Evan MacMillan fell to the ground harshly with a grunt, the burning sensation gone. His scarred skin felt extremely raw and tender from the punishment he’d endured. Painstakingly he hauled himself to his feet, searching for his weapon, but found none. In fact - he found  _ nothing, anywhere.  _ This small area was a little circle of grass in the middle of nowhere, floating in space - or nothingness - or wherever the hell this was. It was completely unlike any of the maps the Entity took them to to play their games. 

Suddenly a scream descended from above and on instinct, the hulking man reached out; instead of crashing to the ground, the very object of his obsession fell right into his arms. Meg continued to scream, thrashing about in his grasp, her eyes closed - this was pure instinctual panic. She probably hadn’t even realized what was going on yet. 

A hand lashed out blindly and struck him hard across the shoulder; a low pained growl came from him and he warned her:  _ “enough.” _

His raspy voice seemed to immediately bring Meg back to reality because her eyes popped open, she went still, and she lifted her gaze to his masked face. Shock was written all over her features. “... Evan…?”

The name earned another rumble, his body stiffening up. He’d long since abandoned that name; he still had no clue why he’d written it for her on that drawing. Or why he’d given it to her.  _ Or why he’d drawn it in the first place.  _ Sketching was something he hadn’t done since he was a boy; his father had snuffed out all desire to.

But Meg was inspiration. 

He watched her, eyes roving her pretty face; intense blue-gray eyes, a rabbit-like nose, pouty lips, pale lightly freckled skin. That messy red hair that had been the subject of many dreams, both sleeping and awake. A myriad of emotions passed her visage, and finally she seemed to regain full control of her faculties and she wriggled out of his grasp. He set her on her feet, surprising both her and himself at the care with which he did so, and took a step back to give her space, simply looking down at her.

Meg analyzed their surroundings just as he did, and it appeared she had the same reaction. “What the hell is this??” she demanded, making a slow turn.

He shrugged. The red-head didn’t seem to like the response. Her eyes narrowed on him, jaw setting in annoyance. “Real helpful, you big dumb turtle,” she muttered. “Is this because…?”

She paused, eyes widening. Those widened eyes lifted to his face, mouth agape. “I… I remember,” she whispered, breathless. “I remember what happened last match. All of it. How Frank… he… how he…  _ licked me…”  _ she began, disgust and pain lacing her voice.

Evan couldn’t help the growl that came from him; a growl filled with anger - no,  _ fury.  _ He regretted his mutilation of the compact killer less and less with each passing second. “And then  _ you…”  _ Meg continued, breath shaking. “ _ You  _ came and you…” she cut herself off, unable to finish. “But…  _ why?” _

_ Why. _

That was the ever-present question. Why were they connected by that red string? Why was he so fascinated by the little red-head, so drawn to her? Why had he subjected himself to torture… just to spare her from it?

Evan worked his jaw, fists clenching and unclenching, trying to figure out a response. Truth was - he didn’t know  _ what  _ to say. She was staring up at him so expectantly and he had absolutely nothing to tell her. Suddenly there was an odd look on her face; she was soft, yet he couldn’t decipher the emotion behind it. Her hand reached up to touch his arm and he instinctively flinched, muscles jumping under her fingers; her gaze went to the spot before coming back up to his face. “Is it... “ she seemed too confused herself to muster coherent questions. Her jaw worked for an answer, but he found it leagues more charming than his own habit. “I don’t… understand, I...  _ what the hell is going on?!” _

“I wish… I knew.”

“You are just the king of useless answers,” Meg growled, turning away and running a hand through her hair. He found the motion strangely entrancing, briefly wishing it was his own fingers doing such a thing. The thought stunned him and yet… felt so natural. “Do you think this is the Entity’s doing? That maybe it’s punishing us… for… what you did?”

Good point. He gave her a nod - then doubled over as pain seared his chest and stomach. His grunt brought Meg’s attention back to him and she immediately grasped his arm, trying to support him the best her tiny body would allow. “Evan? What is it??” she demanded, clutching him. Despite her efforts, he felt his legs give out and the hulking man collapsed to his knees, groaning. 

“Punish…ment,” he gasped, the pain increasing. Before their very eyes, a large, spiderly limb burst from the killer’s stomach, dark sticky blood spattering the ground. He stared down at it almost numbly, coherent thoughts beginning to fade even as the limb disappeared. All he could feel was the pain. Vaguely in the distance he heard screaming; Meg’s screaming. And as agonized as he felt, suddenly all he could think was that he needed to make sure that  _ she  _ was alright. That  _ she  _ wasn’t in pain.

Suddenly the burning dulled and he was finally able to crack his eyes open. Meg looked uninjured, which was a relief - a strange thought considering he’d taken her life on multiple occasions with his own hand - even weirder was the confirmation that she wasn’t screaming in pain; she was screaming for  _ him.  _

Meg’s trembling hands went forward to unbuckle his overalls, baring his torso to her while he tried to catch his breath. Unlike the last time, when she’d been patching him up, there was no blush, no confused desire on her face - she stared in horror at his body. And upon his looking down, he could see why. Hideous ethereal burns blackened his tanned skin, spreading all along his chest down his stomach; and smack dab in the middle of it was a blackened puncture dripping inky blood. “I… I don’t think I have a med-kit for you this time,” Meg croaked, quivering fingers moving toward the injury, but stopping just short of his skin. 

He grunted, still staring down at his own body. This was what the Entity was capable of. This… and much worse. “It happens,” he ground out. A sudden question whirled around in his mind, and no matter how he tried to shake it out, it remained. As she stared in horror at his aching wounds, he watched her face. Wanting to ask her, but being afraid of the answer.

Which was strange, because  _ fear  _ was something Evan MacMillan hadn’t felt in a very long time.

* * *

_ God, this was… unspeakable. _

The Entity had seen fit to punish Evan right before her very eyes; all because he’d stepped out of line. 

All because he’d protected  _ her. _

Meg’s hands instinctively went to touch the festering, blistering burns, as if she had magic in her palms that would heal him, but drew them back because she knew she’d only make things worse. Finally she looked up at him to see that jaw working behind his mask in a way that she’d come to find endearing; she knew he was working up the nerve to speak as he watched her so intently. Finally, he muttered, “do you… remember… other things…?”

Her brows furrowed. “What the hell are you going on about?” she demanded. The question was odd, but the tone behind it - one of uncertainty, even  _ fear -  _ was even weirder. 

“You said you… remembered the… match,” he ground out, voice like a bear’s roar. “Do you…”

Meg’s hands lowered and understanding crossed her face.  _ “Oh.”  _ She pursed her lips. “No… why? Why do you sound so nervous??”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

Her lip curled in annoyance. “Then don’t sound like a distressed little bird,” she snapped, knowing he was lying to her and frustrated as to why.

They were broken from their staring contest by the fading of the burns and the puncture wound; as if the Entity was wiping the slate clean and preparing him for a fresh onslaught of torture. Similarly, she noticed, his previous wounds, as well as all the bandages she’d put on him, were no longer there. Neither were the stitches. Meg’s hand idly went up to the place on his right pectoral where the stitches had once been, fingers brushing gently over the skin; the contact seemed to stun him, because the man tensed and hissed, muscles jumping under her digits anxiously. “It’s like you’ve never known a gentle touch,” she murmured suddenly.

His voice was hard. “I haven’t.” A pause. “At least… not for a… long time.”

* * *

Meg’s eyes lifted back up to his face. There it was again; that mingling of emotions that he couldn’t quite decipher. But he hadn’t had to witness any emotions other than anger and cruelty for a long, long time. The last person who’d looked at him like that was…

… his mother.

Was that his attachment to Meg? The strong will, kindness and fiery spirit that had been nearly crushed by the trials - they reminded him of his mother at the hands of his vicious father. 

The hand on his chest moved up to his mask, lifting it, and that drew him violently out of his reverie. A hand came up to instinctively grab her wrist, his grip like iron; but once he caught his breath, seeing the determination in her blue-gray eyes, he let her go. This time was  _ different;  _ though he had no doubt curiosity had played a part in her initial removing of his mask, she’d also had a medical reason to do so. 

This time, there were no such excuses. And he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

* * *

Meg’s breath caught as she slowly lifted the mask, exposing his face. The sight of those narrowed eyes, hard brow, strong nose, full lips, and chiseled jaw stirred something inside of her that she couldn’t quite describe, but knew she’d never felt before. Even the smattering of angry white scars along his tanned visage did nothing to quell the masculine  _ beauty  _ of the hardened man before her.

That was what he was, wasn’t he?

Just a man.

Now holding the mask in shaking fingers, she stared at him with a slightly slack jaw for a long moment before trying to remember what he’d asked her before, and why. “Why… Why did you want to know if I’d remembered anything else?” She frowned. “Because  _ you  _ remember, don’t you? What happened, Evan? Why won’t you just tell me??”

The usage of his name had him blinking once more, taken aback. It seemed no matter how many times she said it, he didn’t seem to get used to it. It took him a long moment to answer, working his jaw once more. She could see now the direct affectation the gesture had on his face, and if she wasn’t completely entranced by the habit before, she certainly was now. The way his lips ground together, brows furrowing in concentration, muscles in his neck contracting with each grind of his jaw… 

Meg brushed the thoughts away, shocked at herself. He was her  _ enemy.  _ He’d brutally murdered her friends and herself on so many occasions she couldn’t count anymore. That was all. He was the enemy.

_ Wasn’t he…? _

The most recent trial had her fully doubting that, now. Never had a killer done something like that before - sticking their neck out for a survivor, going out of their way to protect them. Or at least, that was the general consensus, considering the survivors only ever vaguely remembered anything that happened in the trials. 

Evan’s tight voice broke her from her thoughts. “Bad… things.”

Her chest felt suddenly heavy. “You… You’re asking because you don’t  _ want  _ me to remember,” she realized.

Something in the killer’s milky white eyes softened. His voice was a low rumble, barely above a whisper. “No.”

“Couldn’t be any worse than being brutally murdered over and over again… I’m sure all the killers have done horrible things…” Meg murmured thoughtfully, before peering back up at him. She shifted closer, on her knees before him; even with them both on their knees, on even ground, his massive body still dwarfed her. At one point it would have struck icy terror in her veins, being so close to him, but now… once she got past that initial fear impulse… she felt…  _ electric. _

He merely looked at her, confliction written across his features. “The difference is,” Meg went on boldly, looking him right in the eye with a defiant expression, “is that other killers  _ enjoy it.” _

He blinked at her. The gesture was so innocent, so unlike him, that the red-head had to bite back a smile. She suddenly felt a rush of pleasure under her skin; Meg found that she very much  _ enjoyed  _ throwing Evan off-guard like that. “I’m serious,” she continued a bit more somberly. “At one point I definitely would have thought you enjoyed it, too… but I’m not so sure anymore. I…” she fidgeted, looking down. “Now I feel like you’re… you’re trapped here - just like we are. You’re…  _ tired.  _ Just like… Just like I am.”

When she met his eyes, she found a strange softness there. Softness she had never seen before. “Tired,” he rumbled.

Before she could reply, something appeared on the ground next to them, drawing the gazes of both of them to it. Meg’s eyes narrowed on it. 

_ A bear trap. _

Though the Entity didn’t speak, it never did except for the sporadic indecipherable whisper, they both immediately understood what it wanted. Meg felt her blood run cold as she locked gazes with the man before her. “It wants…”

“Me… to kill… you,” he finished in an upset growl. His hands tightened at his sides.  _ “I won’t.” _

He said it not just to her, but to the skies. To the Entity, who was no doubt observing them. Meg couldn’t identify the flutter in her chest when she heard the vehemence with which he refused the Entity’s order; but something just didn’t seem right. The Entity had put them here for a reason; if they didn’t comply… if  _ he  _ didn’t comply… she shuddered to think what kind of torture he might go through next. 

She also couldn’t bring herself to speak. 

“No,” he suddenly growled, eyes squeezing shut. Large hands came up to cover his face and Meg found her fingers tightening anxiously on his mask.  _ “No!” _

“What - What is it??” She asked, panic rising in her chest. 

“It…” his breaths came out in ragged gasps, like an injured bear who was fighting to the last breath. “It…  _ whispers…” _

“It whispers  _ what??” _

Suddenly he went still, only small shuddering breaths leaving him. She’d never seen him so disheveled or vulnerable in all their time in the Fog, and the sight made her feel nauseated - not because he was weak, but because she was reminded of the true power and control the Entity held… over  _ all of them.  _ Meg could see the pain the man was in, and yet still he refused… he didn’t want to kill her. Not anymore. And his feelings were strong enough that was willing to endure torture just to stick to them.

Meg reached out, not knowing what she was doing even as she acted; her hands went up to cup his face as her knees brushed against his own, her body shifting as close as it could in their crouched positions. The logical part of her brain, the one that remembered how many times he’d murdered her and her friends, screamed at her to get away - that he deserved every ounce of pain he got and that the Entity should just do away with him for good - but the other half of her remembered what he’d done for her - how he’d literally ripped a man in half for her… 

… and how weirdly handsome he looked, being so vulnerable before her.

Evan’s eyes darted up to meet her gaze and he stiffened under her touch, as if preparing for the pain to come. For her to strike him down. It was almost…  _ sad,  _ how expectant he was for her to hurt him. As she gazed up into his milky white eyes, she briefly wondered what color they had been during his former life. “You don’t want to hurt me anymore,” she murmured.

He shook his head; the simple gesture stealing her breath out of her lungs.

“But the Entity will make you,” Meg continued softly. 

“It will… have to… kill me,” he growled, his jaw tightening. The muscle flexed under her palms, earning a shudder from the red-head. “I’m done.”

Meg felt her breath catch in her throat, an odd tingling sensation washing over her. She couldn’t be sure what it was, but it wasn’t at all unpleasant. And knowing that the fucking  _ Trapper  _ was the source of the tingles… now  _ that  _ was mind-boggling. A soft gasp filled her lungs when his hands came up to rest over her own on his face, dwarfing hers in size. Like they could swallow her whole. She wanted to speak but her mouth suddenly felt dry - she licked her lips and she found his eyes lowering briefly to watch the motion, entranced by it.

What the hell was going on? Were they…  _ connecting? _

Suddenly, Meg saw it. Something so strange, so jarring that her hands moved quickly from his face. A small red string went from his chest, right on his heart, dipping between them before ending at her own chest…  _ right over her heart. _

“The string,” she whispered, eyes widening.

His own hands fell into his lap, clenching. He said nothing, only followed her gaze. “What do you think it is?” Meg pressed, heart hammering in her chest.

“Don’t… know.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “You’ve really got to work on your conversational skills.”

His eyes hardened. “I’ve seen it… since the first… day. Never… knew why it…. was there. It just…  _ was.” _

“Why me?” Meg blurted, unable to help herself. She’d never seen the killer act this way with any of the other survivors. She’d never seen a display like the one he’d made when coming to save her. Why were these behaviors directed at her?

His lips quirked; it wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the softest thing she’d ever seen from him - no, the softest thing she’d ever seen in this hellish nightmare of a world. The sight of it sent something rocketing into her chest, knocking the breath right out of her. “You… don’t… know?” his voice was low and rough; but more gentle than she’d ever heard before.

She wondered if… maybe she  _ did  _ know. But the thought was too outlandish to even consider. Love couldn’t exist in his cold, murderous heart, and love certainly didn’t exist in this realm. 

Then again, she’d  _ also  _ never thought a killer would go out of their way to protect her.

Suddenly pain split her skull and she reared back from him, clutching at her hair and screaming in utter agony. She vaguely felt Evan come closer to her, attempting to numb the pain or help in any way he could, but she was too consumed by the utter pain to respond in any way other than to simply writhe and sob.

And as the drills continued to pierce her brain relentlessly, they brought with them a slew of sounds. Images. Feelings. 

_ Memories. _

_ Of her… and the Trapper. _


	9. Conflicted Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY EVERYONE - *****SOOO, uhm, this chapter contains some pretty explicit stuff. It COULD be considered semi-nonconsensual, but I will say that Meg verbally expresses that she wants it. If anything more than fluffy/romantic sex is triggering for you, then you've been warned, because this is a bit darker.***** ANYWAYS, I apologize for any mistakes as usual, and as always, THANK YOU ALL for reading!!

**_9\. Conflicted Desire_ **

**_[ Meeting 40; Yamaoka Estate. ]_ **

As they set to work on the first generator of the trial, Meg and Ash were completely silent - which was extremely disconcerting, at least on his part. Ash was a loud-mouth who always had some sort of sassy comment - or a flirtatious one - for any situation; so the fact that he seemed just as introspective as she… well, that was strange. She had half a mind to ask the older man just what the hell was up, when Kate snuck up to them, eyes wide with fear. Ash perked up at the sight of the beautiful blonde. “Is it just me or do you get more leggy every time I see you?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

_ Ah, there he is.  _ Meg rolled her eyes, continuing her work. “What’s the matter, Kate?” she asked, noting the songbird’s expression.

“Found one o’ them bear traps over by the shack,” she said, voice wavering. “I-I’m guessin’ we’ve got the Trapper on our hands, folks.”

Meg’s fingers fumbled on a gear, causing the generator to blow up - and the gear to rip into her skin as it ground to a halt. Hissing in pain, the red-head yanked her hand out of the contraption and all three of them scattered to the tall grass for cover. Suddenly the trio heard the  **_CLAP_ ** of a trap accompanied by the ear-splitting scream of Claudette, and fear burned through them. Ash was the first to move; always so bold, so brave, so arrogant. “I’ll get her,” he said confidently. “This will be cake. That asshole won’t know what hit him.”

“Ash!” Kate scolded from the bushes. “Don’t be a fool! You need to be  _ careful.  _ This isn’t just a game!”

He glanced back at her, all salt and pepper and swagger. A smirk curled his lips. “That’s some swell pillow-talk, baby,” he said, earning an embarrassed blush from the blonde. “But this  _ is  _ a game - and I aim to win.”

Then he departed, leaving both women shaking their heads. No matter how many times he won OR lost, Ash Williams was always a fighter, always over-confident, and somehow always inspirational. “Did you know that apparently where he comes from he fought  _ demons?  _ With a  _ chainsaw??”  _ Kate said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “He’s so full of it. There’s no way. Demons aren’t even real.”

Kate frowned slightly. “Well… I’d always assumed evil Japanese spirits weren’t real, either, and yet here we are,” she muttered.

“Point taken,” Meg sighed.

* * *

The match had run into the ground fairly quickly. Though Ash’s bravado boosted morale for the rest of them, they were eventually picked off one by one. Meg thought she’d never forget the way he looked the Trapper right in the eyes before he died, spit on him, and said  _ “Kiss my grits, Screwhead.” _

That would have to go down as one of the boldest survivor moves in Fog history, Meg thought even as she snuck around a corner, looking for the hatch. Despite being in awe at Ash’s antics, she was also currently afraid. Very, very afraid. Being the last one left of the motley crew, the hatch was her safest bet - but she couldn’t seem to find the damn thing. 

Coming around the side of the center shrine, Meg glimpsed the cold metal hiding in the tall grass - and around the opposite corner came the Trapper, 7 feet of imposing, horrifying muscle, wielding that bloody cleaver. She was fast - but he was  _ closer.  _ His foot slammed the door down just as she skidded to a halt in front of it; even as Meg back-pedaled, trying to get away as quickly as possible, she didn’t fail to notice how even though he could have taken a swing at her and made a successful hit, he  _ didn’t. _

Instead, the killer gave chase, marching after her with thundering footsteps and bear-like pants, that ever-grinning mask staring right at her. Veering around the building and fleeing up the steps, Meg glanced back to see him right on her tail, fear arcing through her like fire.  _ Come on!  _ She screamed desperately at herself.  _ MOVE YOUR LEGS! _

Darting over to a railing, she grabbed on and hopped it - and as she went over, a hand roughly grabbed the back of her hoodie, yanking her right back into the shrine area. Immediately Meg began flailing, wailing, trying anything she could to get away - but he held her firmly, dragging her over to the center altar in the shrine and throwing her down on it. A cry escaped her throat as her back hit the cold, hard stone - and she stared up at him in shock as he loomed over her. “Just KILL ME, then!” she growled. Ever brave. Ever  _ stupid.  _

_ “No,”  _ he said simply, his voice a low, ragged bass. Like the growling of a bear combined with melted chocolate. Dropping his cleaver to the wooden floor with a clatter, he took a step closer to her, still staring down at her through that eerie white mask. Meg attempted to scoot back, scurry away, but the Trapper caught her by the ankle and yanked her into him - both pain and…  _ something else  _ jolted through her at the contact, leaving the red-head bewildered. What the hell was all this? Killers  _ killed.  _ That was what they did. Some of them took particular pleasure in it, like the Clown or the Shape, but she hadn’t remembered something like  _ this  _ ever happening before.

Not that she remembered many specific details about the trials, anyways.

But  _ the Trapper  _ did, apparently, because he narrowed those cold pearly eyes down at her, satisfaction in his voice at the whimper that had come out of her.  _ “You whimpered like that last time, too,”  _ he murmured. His body felt impossibly hot against her as he used her ankle to tug her in tightly against his hips, and Meg had to stifle more sounds down by biting harshly on her lip. Fear raced through her, palpitating her heart, but for some reason… some reason she couldn’t quite comprehend… she felt a hot little ball of warmth in her belly at the contact. Maybe it was the way his hard, muscled body felt against her or the fact that he didn’t seem at all interested in killing her… but the thought that this actually felt  _ good  _ made the girl feel nauseated.

“Yeah?” she managed, mustering up her dirtiest scowl. “Did I do THIS, too??”

With that, she moved her free leg to kick him as hard as she could - but a fast, strong hand grabbed her other ankle before she could make contact and suddenly the Trapper had a grip on both of her legs and Meg fully realized just how vulnerable she was. More of that white-hot energy zipped down her spine as he spread her legs by the ankles, his hips pressing down against her almost painfully rough. The sounds that escaped her throat were embarrassingly wanton, and Meg felt a painful clench in her chest.  _ This wasn’t right. She didn’t want this. She  _ **_couldn’t_ ** _ want this. He was a killer, she a survivor, and the lines weren’t meant to be blurred. _

The thought that he might’ve done something like this before was equally distressing. Had she liked it  _ then,  _ too? Or was this just some sick side of her she’d never known existed? His voice broke her out of her panicked thoughts:  _ “brave Little Rabbit. Brave… or stupid.” _

“Not as stupid as  _ you,”  _ she ground out, choking back another cry as he bucked his hips against her, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through her core. Meg felt her body responding to him, dampness accumulating down below while stiffening nipples strained against her sports bra. A gasp left her as the material brushed over the sensitive buds.  _ “No!”  _ she protested, not sure whether it was directed at him or  _ herself.  _

But of course he didn’t listen. One hand released an ankle to move up her body, ripping off her jacket, then her jersey, then the bra. Once exposed to the cold air her pink nipples distended completely and Meg found herself gasping for breath as a large hand came up to grasp one of the squishy globes, kneading it surprisingly less roughly than she could’ve imagined. Once two calloused fingers pinched and tugged at the peak, she found her sanity slipping away, tipping her head back against the stone beneath her and feeling her body grow increasingly restless.

The Trapper’s hand lingered on the other breast, giving it the same attention as its twin, low primal growls coming from him that shot through her, making her insides feel like liquid. Once again her brain tried to remind her that  _ this wasn’t right, that she should not want this,  _ but the singing of her body was hard to ignore. The other hand on her ankle released it to join the first in sliding down her now naked torso, rough hands leaving a trail of absolute fire on her skin, making her back arch wantonly; they came to her jogging pants and wasted no time in viciously ripping them off, leaving nasty red marks on her pale skin with their violent removal. It was only when she felt achingly cold air on another very heated part of her body that Meg realized… 

_ … she was naked. Completely.  _

He’d ripped her panties away along with her pants, and it was only at that exposure that the red-head somewhat came to her senses, lifting her head and staring up at him with panicked blue-gray eyes. He matched her gaze with one of his own, heat and hunger and cruel satisfaction twisting his face beneath the mask.  _ “You couldn’t stop me from exposing you even if you wanted to,”  _ the brute growled lowly, hands coming up to smooth over her knees, clutching them almost possessively.  _ “But you  _ **_don’t_ ** _ want to, do you, Little Rabbit…?” _

Meg opened her mouth to retort but her protests, insults, pleas, they all died in the back of her throat, only shuddering breaths coming out. The killer used the opportunity to move a hand up her body, coming through the valley of her breasts, and before she could stop him, he stuck a finger into her mouth, the pad of the digit tasting of salt and iron on her tongue.  _ Blood.  _ She gagged, trying to shake her head, but his finger dug down on her tongue almost painfully, his jaw clenching behind his mask.  _ “Suck.”  _ he commanded, his voice so dangerous that she immediately obeyed, closing her lips on the digit and rolling her tongue around it. The ball of energy in her abdomen coiled so tight it felt like it was about to burst when he growled long and low in his throat, watching her suck his finger with unabashed lust in his milky white eyes. Suddenly she felt another jolt against her body; his hips smacking against her own, sending lightning through her.

Meg was suddenly aware just how swollen her clit had become, how painfully her entrance puckered and clenched with need; tears pricked the corners of her eyes as her brain gave one more feeble attempt at waking her up from this nightmare.  _ This isn’t right. He is a killer. You don’t want him. You  _ **_can’t_ ** _ want him. This isn’t you. _

That final urging of her mind allowed Meg to attempt to fully squeeze shut her legs; the Trapper pulled his finger from her mouth to join the other hand in grabbing her ankles once more. Clad in nothing but her shoes at this point, the red-head found her tender body fully exposed to him as the killer painstakingly pulled apart her legs inch by inch, gaze moving down her body to watch. A feral sound came from him as her pink womanhood bloomed before him - that alone was enough to pucker her painfully and she let out a small, choked whimper. She tried to close her legs once more but the effort was that of a mouse fighting a lion; it was no use whatsoever. Laughable, even.

One hand finally released its bruising grip on her ankle to slide slowly down the inside of her leg until it rested right near the crevice between her thigh and her aching slit; a rough thumb came up to brush deceptively gently up and down her outer lips, extracting a shuddering whimper from the red-head.  _ “Mewl for me, Little Rabbit,”  _ the Trapper rumbled hungrily.  _ “You hate yourself for it. The greatest torture you could ever know is the confliction you feel right now… because you want it.” _

Meg clamped her mouth shut, muffling the sounds that rose up in her throat as the thumb spread her open, exposing her velvety pink folds, throbbing clit, and leaking pink hole. The growl that came from him had her entrance spasming; he watched it, unwilling to look away, lowering the thumb to finally press it inward, probing. Prodding at the clenching hole torturously. A near-squeal came from her and her back arched instinctively, every inch of her body feeling like it was on fire; Meg didn’t know how much more of it she could take. He was  _ right,  _ she thought miserably as tears trailed down her temples into her hair. It felt so good, so impossibly good, and she hated herself for wanting it. For wanting  _ him.  _ It would have been far less painful to be put on a hook and taken back to the safety of the campfire. 

His finger stopped its prodding and she shifted restlessly, hips moving slightly, aching for more friction. Those animalistic eyes shifted up to her face, his jaw clenching. Possibly with the effort of not ravaging her then and there. No, he was taking his time; the cruel, sadistic bastard wanted to  _ hurt her.  _

_ “Tell me you want it,”  _ he commanded harshly.

Meg’s jaw locked and though she still squirmed, her body betraying her need, she refused to answer. Those cruel eyes narrowed on her and he withdrew his thumb completely.  _ “If you deny me, and  _ yourself,  _ this pain will go on longer than you could imagine, girl,”  _ the brute warned with a growl.

Meg parted her lips, feeling more tears come. “I… I want it,” she whispered, nauseated by her own words. Feeling sick to her core at the fact that she’d just said that to  _ the Trapper  _ of all people.

Hating herself for the simple fact that all of her sexual encounters in high school, all the fumbling hands, trysts in the locker rooms, wandering eyes, quick bouts of lust; none of it could come close to a  _ single brush of this killer’s finger.  _

It seemed even his cruelty had limits, because he finally moved his hand back in, the other still gripping onto her ankle, keeping her legs forcefully spread; but instead of inserting his thumb into her tight, aching entrance, he slid it up between her outer lips, coating it in her warm, sticky juices, and made its way up to the throbbing, swollen button above the entrance, brushing the rough pad of the digit over it. Fire raced through Meg and she tipped her head back to let out a cry much louder than any of the previous ones. A fresh wave of spasms contracted her inner walls and that ball of energy became painful as he began slicking his thumb over the pearl rhythmically; his low sounds of satisfaction only stirring up her insides even more. By the time his thumb pulled back, Meg’s entire core felt like molten liquid; and she was sure that the slightest touch, the slightest pressure might make her simply crumble away in the wind.

Both of his hands retracted.  _ Run,  _ her brain urged her desperately, but the red-head could do nothing but lay there, pant, tremble, hoping and hating that there might be more in store for her. The rustle of clothing brought her attention to her captor and her eyes widened drastically at the sight of the Trapper’s naked body in front of her. He’d dropped his overalls and his length was now standing proud, hovering just over her mound; not touching her skin, but so close she could feel his heat blazing against her. Just the thought of it had her quivering with both anticipation and immense guilt. 

As he moved back in, the base of his cock pressed against her, eliciting a cry from the red-head. His hands latched firmly back onto her ankles, spreading her legs as wide as her lithe body would allow, spreading her open for his own delight; her cheeks flushed with arousal, shame, and embarrassment as the Trapper unabashedly stared down at her flowery sex. Pressing against her firmly, he began moving his hips in a slow, rhythmic motion, gliding the underside of his shaft between her outer lips and coating himself with her juices. The most primal sounds escaped him as he moved, mingling with her strangled mewls of utter pleasure as her hips did their best to grind up against him.  _ Was this it? Was this really how things were going to? Was she really going to have sex with  _ **_a killer?_ **

_ Was she really going to  _ **_enjoy_ ** _ it? _

She could feel his own self-control waning, being taken over by the animal desire to ravage her insides as he ground against her roughly, his entire pelvis now covered in her juices.

As the Trapper moved his hips back, tip sliding down between her folds to lodge itself just at her entrance, Meg felt her entire body tense with anticipation and fear. It was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do about it. She felt the Trapper’s hips shift just slightly, prodding at her tight hole with the tip, and she knew he did it just to make her squirm a little more - and it worked. Her hips restlessly moved against him, pussy spasming painfully with need, and the frustrated little grunt that came from her must’ve amused him. He stopped, cocked his head at her, and she could see his jaw clench behind that infernal mask, eyes narrowing.  _ “You’re desperate. Look where I have you now, Little Rabbit… this is more satisfying than even the most challenging kill.” _

“S-Shut up,” Meg stammered, unable to even manage a glare his way; only able to tip her head back against the altar, eyes closing as she prepared for the exquisite - and torturous penetration of the killer’s thick length.

But it never came.

Moments later, Meg found herself being lifted upwards by spidery claws, and she disappeared into the sky… vaguely hearing the enraged roaring of the Trapper down below.


	10. Vulnerability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can y'all tell I'm a big Legion fan? xD Enjoy! AS ALWAYS, thank you ALL for reading!! <3

**_10\. Vulnerability_ **

**_[ Meeting 103-2; Unknown. ]_ **

The rush of memories left Meg feeling breathless, hopeless, full of absolute horror - both at him, and at  _ herself.  _

_ That  _ was what had happened between them, and that insight led her to the knowledge that it wasn’t the only sexual encounter they might’ve had. And furthermore, the fact that she’d  _ liked it…  _ That fact reminded her what a cruel creature Evan - no,  _ the Trapper -  _ really was.

When Meg came to the present, gasping and choking and feeling tears burn the corners of her eyes, she saw him looking at her with furrowed brows; probably his best attempt at concern. Evan said nothing, simply waited for her to speak, but he was hovering over her cautiously, as if trying to protect her from… well, anything. But the moment Meg looked at him, all she could see was his thick, hard member; the cruel twist of his face under his mask; the cold, sick pleasure in his husky voice. The feeling of him gliding against her. Torturing her. Sending shockwaves through her body.

With a cry, the red-head scrambled out from under him and scurried away as quickly as she could - right until she got to the edge of the terrain they were on, peering down in horror over the edge. Below them was…  _ nothing.  _ A vast, empty plane. Fear clutched her chest when she realized she was truly trapped here with him, the man that had killed her friends, the man that had… that had…  _ touched  _ her in a way that left fire burning in her veins… the man that had taken such pleasure in her misery.

But a man who’d also endured his own torture… just to spare her.

Conflicted feelings rose so violently in her chest that she keeled over onto her stomach and vomited. Not much came out of her; so she continued to dry-heave until her stomach and her throat couldn’t take it anymore. All the while, Evan hadn’t moved a muscle, remaining on his knees and watching her with an enigmatic expression. Feeling raw from head to toe, Meg wheeled on him, enraged. “HOW COULD YOU?” she exploded. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

He was infuriatingly silent. Whether he didn’t have an answer, or simply chose not to speak, Meg didn’t know, but she felt anger and hatred churning in her stomach, spilling furious word-vomit out of her mouth. “You make my own body betray me; you take sick pleasure in humiliating me, hunting me, torturing me; and then you - you save me! You look at me with  _ those eyes!”  _ Her voice went low - still filled with anger… and now vulnerability.  _ “You sketched me.” _

A long silence stretched between them. Evan’s voice eventually stirred her from the whirling emotions in her head. “Yes,” he finally rumbled, voice wavering just slightly. “I did.”

She hadn’t ever heard such emotion in his voice; it was so startling that her eyes softened and she looked more confused and lost than ever. Tears broke and streamed down her cheeks.  _ “WHY?”  _ she demanded, voice cracking with grief. 

He still didn’t - or couldn’t - answer her.

Meg turned away, struggling to her feet and looking anywhere but at  _ him.  _ She couldn’t - wouldn’t - look at him. It brought up all those confusing and awful feelings. She was done here. No more curiosity. She regretted her decision to pursue those questions, because they’d landed her  _ here. _

The Entity seemed satisfied with the conclusions she’d come to, and offered her a way out. Meg took it, unwilling and unable to glance back at the monster she left behind.

* * *

As much as Meg hated what she’d seen and regretted ever coming onto the MacMillan estate, she couldn’t seem to force herself to get rid of the coal sketch of her likeness. It still laid in her tent and she sat there, unwilling to speak to any of the survivors no matter how concerned they were, and she stared at the damn paper.

She stared at it until she couldn’t bear to look any longer and she sat up abruptly, throwing herself out of her tent and beginning to jog away from the campfire without a glance back. She needed to  _ run.  _ To feel the wind in her hair, the grass under her feet, the burning in her lungs. Her jog broke into a dash and she got lost in the sensation of being  _ free. _

Well, as free as she  _ could  _ be in this nightmare. 

Meg had been so consumed by her thoughts that she didn’t realize where her feet had taken her until they crunched in the snow and she found herself staring up at Ormond Lodge. Apprehension filled her and she turned to leave, but raucous noise made her freeze and she couldn’t seem to move her feet. A glance over her shoulder told her that the Legion, all four of them, seemed to be having quite a bit of fun trashing the Lodge and drinking an unknown drink out of cans and crushing them over their heads. 

What was worse -  _ goddamn Frank himself  _ seemed to have spotted her. The red-head turned to run but she could hear his frenzied footsteps not far behind her and cursed her fucking terrible luck. All that bullshit with Evan had gone down not too long ago and now here she was getting herself in the same fucking mess. 

Well - almost the same. She doubted any of the Legion would look at her the way Evan did… or sketch her with charcoal… or save her from being killed… or touch her so that wanton fire burned in her veins…

Meg shook her head to snap out of it, but the small distraction was enough to seal her fate. Her foot caught on a scraggly tree root and she face-planted in the snow, groaning and sluggishly attempting to scurry away. Frank grabbed her by the back of her jacket, hauling her to her feet; she tried to escape but he still had a firm grasp on her clothing. She finally looked over at him to see the killer bare-faced and smirking smugly at her. “Well… well…  _ well.” _

“Evan knows where I am,” she warned immediately; it was a bold-faced lie, but she told it with such a straight expression that the lithe teen gripping her allowed his expression to falter for just a moment as he recalled what had happened in their last match.

Quickly his facade was put back into place. Frank didn’t relinquish his grip, but he also had no weapon on him. “Now now, Red, who said I was going to  _ kill  _ you?”

Meg scowled. “Sorry for assuming the worst, considering the circumstances,” she snapped.

Ugh, there was that smirk again; if he were anyone else, in any other situation, it would have been disarmingly sexy. As it was, it just made her stomach turn - because she knew what was coming next. “Let me go,” Meg demanded.

_ “ _ What’s the word I’m looking for -  _ no.” _

Meg growled before opening her mouth to scream for Evan - though she knew it wouldn’t do any good,  _ he  _ didn’t….

Frank clamped a hand down over her mouth and black-rimmed hazel eyes narrowed down on her dangerously. “Stupid bitch,” he hissed. “You summon that big oaf here and we’re all dead. So shut your trap and just come with me like the good little survivor you are. A party awaits.”

“I don’t WANT to go to a party,” Meg said vehemently, tugging against him as he tried to pull her back toward the lodge. “And Evan is  _ not stupid -” _

“Yeah, no more retarded than you I guess,” Frank interrupted carelessly, still tugging her along. Despite how compact he was compared to giants like the Oni, Myers, or Evan himself, he was still deceptively strong and had no trouble overpowering the red-head, forcing her to join him and the others at the lodge.

The other three members of the Legion all looked up; though their faces were covered with masks, Meg could clearly tell they were watching her. “Don’t look too excited,” she mumbled, face flushing with embarrassment. 

Frank shoved her inside, grabbing a can of whatever they’d be drinking and tossing it at her. It nearly hit Meg’s head as she fumbled for it, feeling anxiety rushing in her pulse. What the hell was going on here??  _ Was she dreaming??  _ “She’s shaking like a rabbit,” one of the females said; the one with presumably short hair, considering it didn’t hang down over her chest like the other one’s did. The teen’s voice was low for a woman, and tinged with cold cruelty. “I like when they shake.”

“Now now,  _ Julie,”  _ Frank chided with false sweetness, grabbing the back of Meg’s hoodie again and forcing her down into a ratty old chair that expelled dust upon receiving her weight. Meg coughed up a storm, clutching her can anxiously as the obvious leader of the group addressed his right-hand woman. “Little Red here is our  _ esteemed guest.  _ Besides - if we decide to harm a hair on her stupid little head, that bald, metal detector piece of shit will come running like a fucking dog.”

Julie tilted her head, expression indecipherable behind the mask. Clear annoyance laced her voice. “So you weren’t lying after all. Who knew.” That masked visage turned on Meg, who stiffened up. “Is numb nuts here telling the truth?”

Meg had a feeling that although Frank was the leader of the group, he had little to no power when it came to  _ Julie.  _ The thought of the masked woman bullying the little shit who’d dared to lick her was immensely pleasing and Meg found herself holding back a giggle despite her fear. 

The whole room tensed. “W-What are you giggling at?” the other girl, the one with the long pink hair, asked almost nervously. Her shy and awkward demeanor didn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the group at all. 

Meg’s eyes narrowed on her. “You know, I may not remember what exactly happens in most trials, but I do remember  _ you  _ being a little wuss,” she said, an edge in her voice. “Why do you even hang out with these bloodthirsty idiots??”

Frank burst out laughing; the sound was both extremely annoying and mildly contagious - like she wasn’t sure whether to smack him, or laugh  _ with  _ him. “Susie, you  _ are  _ a fuckin’ wuss,” he howled. “Little wuss bitch. Red here would make a better killer than you -”

“Frank, she called you a bloodthirsty idiot,” the fourth member of the squad interrupted, his voice low. His mask had a sort of skull on it and he was dressed in all black; seeing his hands, which held a can of whatever they were drinking, Meg could tell that his skin was almost as dark as his clothing. “You realize that, right?”

The leader of the four paused, then shrugged it off with a forced casual demeanor. “She can call me whatever the fuck she wants,” he said, voice almost lackadaisical. Approaching the dusty old chair Meg sat in, he braced his hands on the arms of the chair, effectively boxing her in. The red-head shrunk back into the old cushions, feeling her heart hammering in her chest - although she did her damndest to give him the nastiest glare she could. “I get to hear her scream when I kill her. I get to hear that cute little gurgle she makes when I gut her so slowly and intimately. I get to see the  _ light  _ fade from her eyes. Don’t I? So why should I care if she calls me a fuckin’ idiot? The real idiot here is a little red-headed bitch who thinks she’s not in absolute danger right here, right now.” His voice lowered, and although the others could still hear, Meg knew he was speaking directly to her. A shudder ran through her at the intensity of his gaze; an almost animal desire reflected there - although whether it was for her body, or her blood, she didn’t know. “Because Red… the only thing between you and death right now is  _ our goddamn whim.” _

Meg sucked in a breath, hating that her angry expression had slipped and she was showing him every ounce of fear she was feeling. And he ate it up, too, because his lips twisted into an almost maniacal grin before he backed away as if nothing had happened. Flouncing back against an old suitcase, he kicked his feet up and joined the others in merely hanging about, sipping at their drinks and occasionally kicking stuff. As Meg looked around, she noticed the whole resort area was wrecked; probably due to the four rowdy teens having no respect for anything and deciding they wanted to take their anger out on the property. “Why am I here?” she found herself asking, breaking the silence between them all.

“Don’t sound so ungrateful,” Julie hissed, clenching her can in her fist and denting it. “As numb nuts here said, you’re a guest at our party.”

“This is the worst party I’ve ever been to,” Meg muttered.

“Maybe you’d fuckin’ loosen up a little if you actually drank your beer instead of sitting there like a stupid little vegetable,” Frank said, eyes roving over her. Then he sat up, getting to his feet. “In fact - why don’t I be a good Samaritan and help?”

Meg stiffened up. Her desire to rebel and her fear were battling in her mind, and she watched anxiously as he came over to her. “F-Frank,  _ don’t,”  _ Susie warned timidly.

“Shut the fuck up.” Although his comment was directed at Susie, his eyes never left Meg. Coming back over to her, he boxed her in with his body like before and reached for the can of beer. At Meg’s resistance he yanked it out of her hands viciously, cracking it open and grinning from ear to ear. “Head back, Red,” he commanded; Meg only glared at him.

“Fuck off,” she growled.

His grin faded and his eyes flashed dangerously. A hand darted out, grabbing her chin so hard it brought a squeal of pain out of her and her whole body acted, writhing in the chair and trying to get away. Frank pressed against her, his hard body keeping her in her place - and worst of all, the others said absolutely nothing, merely watching with interest. That smirk returned and the hand on her chin went up into her hair, grasping and yanking on it to tug her head back. “ _ I said, head back,”  _ he growled, keeping her tilted up, the can hovering over her face. “I guess you aren’t as much of a fuck-twat as I thought. You  _ can  _ listen. Good little girl-jock. Now;  _ open wide.” _

Meg clamped her mouth shut, feeling angry tears burn the corners of her eyes. Somehow, this was worse than being put on a hook. To be toyed with and humiliated like this… 

Her mind went to Evan - how he’d done the same long ago… but how that guilt seemed to flash in his milky eyes, and how he’d done what no other killer had done - he’d saved her. She wondered, truly, if he’d save her now. If calling his name would do any good whatsoever. The hand in her hair moved back down to her chin, grabbing it and forcing her lips to part with a not-so gentle squeeze. Another whimper of pain came from the red-head, her whole body trembling as Frank pressed her into the cushions, that twisted little smile on his face. He was relishing in each shift of her body, each pained gasp, the fear in her eyes. He loved it.

Soon the liquid came down, filling her mouth; before she could spit it out the killer’s hand covered her mouth, forcing her to swallow. It tasted disgusting, and the lukewarm temperature made bile rise in the back of her throat. Tears streamed down her temples and the moment he uncovered her mouth to pour more in, Meg let out a blood-curdling scream. Would anyone hear her? Another survivor? The Entity itself?  _ Evan…? _

“Ready for round two?” Frank asked with a snicker. “What a good little dumpster. You don’t even need a funnel or anything.” When the next batch of beer came pouring out, it filled Meg’s mouth and ran over her chin; she could feel it choking her, burning in the back of her nose, strangling her as she tried so hard to cry for help… but could only gurgle. Swallowing more of it, she gasped for air and screamed again - although when she did, Frank paused and stared at her, a brief flicker of shock on his face.

She hadn’t even realized it when she screamed,  _ “EVAN! EVAN, PLEASE! HELP!” _

Meg looked almost as shocked as he did - and quickly he put a hand over her mouth, clamping down so hard on her that she bit her own tongue and tasted iron. “You fucking  _ bitch,”  _ the killer hissed, eyes filled with rage. “You better be glad I don’t cut that filthy little tongue out of your head and eat it like candy. If Mister fucking Clean comes wandering over here, I swear to god I’ll gut you like a little oinker and make you choke on something other than this beer.”

Meg said nothing; she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything other than whimper and uselessly struggle under the weight of his body. And the others just  _ watched.  _ They might not have been as openly bloodthirsty as Frank was, but they were certainly just as cold, because they didn’t seem bothered to lift a finger to stop him. 

And Meg’s heart sank further and further with each passing moment, because she knew as Frank forced her mouth open for more, Evan wasn’t coming to help her.

_ No one was. _


	11. Compromise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys, had a wedding to attend - but as usual, my apologies for any errors in spelling, grammar, or continuity; and THANK YOU for reading!

**_11\. Compromise_ **

**_[ Encounter 103-3; Mount Ormond Resort. ]_ **

When he saw the presence of another survivor on his property, the Trapper (feeling more deserving of the brutal title than ever) tensed up, fingers itching for his cleaver. Meg had been the only one to ever wander here outside of the trials, so the arrival of the woodsy boy with the green jacket was unnerving to say the least. 

It was difficult to suppress the instinct to protect himself - to hurt the other. Hands clenched into fists to keep from shaking and he emerged from the large factory building, stopping a few yards short of the boy and staring at him, hoping that he was threatening enough.

And judging by the tension in the boy’s body and the wariness of his gaze, the threat was loud and clear. But still he didn’t leave, nor did he move another muscle; it was clear he wanted to talk, and the Trapper for the life of him couldn’t imagine why. 

Until he realized…  _ Meg. _

Could it be that Meg wasn’t the only one starting to remember what happened in the trials? Could it be that the Entity was tired of the dynamic it had created, and was seeking to create a new kind of entertainment…? One where the survivors and the killers knew each other well, used each other’s weaknesses and strengths; a way to… level the playing field. 

If that was the case, this was going to be a much more dangerous game. 

“Zarina remembers what you did,” the boy, whose name he thought might’ve been Jake, finally said.

The Trapper said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “We all do, actually,” Jake murmured, frowning. “We’re all beginning to… remember. Everything. Every trial. And Zarina told me that you… you saved Meg. Is that right?”

Everything about the boy’s posture was still wary, as if he expected pain at any moment, but there was a strange curiosity in his dark eyes. The Trapper clenched and unclenched his jaw, trying to find words; after being so long here, it had become much more difficult. As if the longer the Fog held him, the less remained of his human faculties. 

Which was odd in itself. Many of the other killers, such as that annoying idiot in the black cloak, seemed to retain their human functions perfectly; while others… like the Wraith, or the Nurse… didn’t even seem human  _ at all  _ anymore. The Trapper was stuck somewhere in the middle; not a man, but not fully beast, either. 

“Why… are you…”

“... telling you?” Jake smiled bitterly. “I guess because you’re the only killer that’s ever crossed the line like that. Two things: first, I want to know  _ why.  _ What’s your attachment to Meg? Do you  _ like  _ her or something? Second - I… may need your help.”

The killer’s brows furrowed more and more with each word, lip curling into a scowl. This puny runt had the nerve to ask him for help? Not only that, but he drilled him with questions that he frankly didn’t know how to answer. “... Yes,” he said dumbly.

Jake arched a brow. “Yes  _ what?” _

He grunted in frustration. Finally: “Meg is…  _ important.” _

“Ah, I thought so,” the boy replied, heaving a sigh and running a hand through his hair. He looked tired - though the Trapper supposed they  _ all  _ were. “That’s… disgusting.”

The killer stiffened. He wasn’t sure why the words affected him so, considering it was the logical reaction to such a situation; he was a killer, and she was a survivor. It  _ was  _ disgusting to think that he cared for her, or she for him. But still the Trapper found himself tensing up, anger blooming in his chest, the urge to beat the woodland boy senseless increasing tenfold. He hadn’t realized he’d let out a low, threatening growl until he saw Jake’s eyes narrow on him, the survivor taking a few cautious steps back. “Listen - whatever. I don’t care why you did it, but if you really do care about her, then help me. Meg… disappeared last night. Or… I don’t know when; time is all screwed up here. She went for a jog, and we thought nothing of it because that’s just normal for her.”

The Trapper nodded slightly, calming his rage. Hearing the prospect of Meg being in danger instantly had him focused on the boy for any information. Though she probably hated him for what he’d done, and though he didn’t feel he had any right to even  _ look  _ at her, though the guilt gnawed at him incessantly, he still knew that he wanted to protect her. He  _ needed  _ to - to somehow try and make up for the pain he’d caused. For the lives he’d taken - here… and back in the real world.

Perhaps his attachment to Meg was nothing more than his former self’s desire for penance.

As soon as he thought of her lovely red hair and those bold blue-gray eyes, he knew that wasn’t true.

Jake let out a heavy breath. “I figured she’d come back like she always does, but just as we started thinking she’d been gone a little too long, we all started getting our memories back, and… got distracted.” He flinched at the low growl he heard in response. Continuing on, voice shaking a little, he said, “I-I don’t know where she’s gone, but several people have gone through trials in the meantime. So I  _ know  _ that wherever she is, it isn’t good. It’s not that she hasn’t chosen to come back to the campfire - she  _ can’t.” _

“So… we look,” the Trapper rumbled. Holding up a hand briefly to tell him to wait, the killer went back into the factory briefly and emerged once more, holding his cleaver. He could see Jake freeze at the sight of it. “For… danger,” the killer said, brandishing the blade.

“Yeah…. Forgive me for being suspicious,” the boy muttered sarcastically, and the two went on their way - the most unlikely allies in such a dark place.

* * *

“G-Guys… this really isn’t necessary…” Susie stammered; she was the only one of the four to completely hang back, refusing to take her turn on Meg. Even the quiet male, whose name turned out to be Joey, Meg learned amidst the torture, stepped up to bat after receiving pressure from Frank.

Panting, with blood and alcohol dripping from her chin, and other various cuts oozing along her body, Meg fixed the dark-skinned teen with a dirty look. “You’re just gonna do what he says?” She demanded, voice weak. “Like a good little submissive dog? So eager to impress…”

Joey hissed angrily, a booted foot coming up to deliver a nasty kick to her stomach, earning a sharp cry of pain from her. Susie tried once more to speak up.  _ “Guys!  _ This isn’t a-a trial! We don’t have to…”

“Shut the  _ fuck  _ up, you quim,” Frank growled. “Are you  _ Legion  _ or not?!?”

“I-I  _ am,”  _ she insisted, voice frail. 

Julie offered her the bloodied knife they’d all been passing around. Meg’s eyes wearily shifted between them, following the blade as it passed hands; this seemed to have been going on forever, and the rowdy teens showed no signs of stopping. Vaguely she realized, as she looked up at the ceiling, that  _ this  _ was  _ her  _ punishment. Punishment for becoming attached to a killer. For allowing that connection to be formed. Punishment for  _ keeping that drawing. _

Susie took the knife, albeit hesitantly, and the other three made a little room for her to invade Meg’s personal space. “I-I’m sorry,” the girl whimpered as she plunged the knife into the red-head’s shoulder, earning a blood-curdling scream. It was the first stab wound of the night, sure to be the first of many. But Meg couldn’t seem to think coherently - she could only focus on the agony slicing through her as the cold steel buried itself in her flesh, scraping bone. 

They proceeded to take turns, and by the time she got a break, Meg was seeing fuzzy dots in the corners of her vision and her heart-rate was dangerously low. She was past the point of fear, past the point of wondering when or if she’d be saved from this hell. She could only feel pain. Pain and the sweet release of impending unconsciousness like a siren song in her head.

“Wait,” Frank hissed as Joey took the knife. When the masked killer hovered over her anyways, Frank grabbed him by the shoulder. “I said  _ hold the fuck up, retard.” _

“What the fuck is your problem?” Julie demanded.

“Don’t you hear it?” Frank growled.  _ “Am I the only one without cum in their fuckin’ ears?” _

Joey paused, knife clutched tightly in his fingers. “Footsteps,” he murmured, turning his head to look at Frank. “Heavy ones.”

Meg tried to hide the sudden surge of utter elation she felt. Could it be? Could it be that her pleas for help, the way she yelled his name… that she  _ actually did summon him? _

Suddenly someone burst into the lodge - but it wasn’t Evan. No, it was Jake, and Meg’s eyes widened as she locked eyes with the woodsy teen. “JAKE - get out of here!” she croaked angrily, not able to do much more than squirm in her seat. Each movement caused her vision to fade and she had to blink back the darkness threatening to press in. 

Frank’s face contorted into a psychotic grin. “Looks like the lone wolf isn’t so lonely after all,” the killer spat. “His pathetic ass came to try and rescue his little rabbit-face girlfriend. Keyword:  _ try.” _

“Try and  _ fail,”  _ Julie added, bringing a hunting knife out of its sheath at her belt and tossing it from hand to hand, much like Frank had a habit of doing. “He’s cute. Let me have him.”

Frank looked between Jake and Julie, eyes narrowing. Deciding not to argue with her, he turned his attention back to the other Legion members. “If it was just the fuckin’ pipsqueak here, then why the fuck did those footsteps sound so heavy?”

“Maybe he was stomping or something,” Joey suggested with a shrug.

Frank sneered. “And maybe you’re a fucking retard.” Turning to Susie, he brandished his own knife and pointed it at her threateningly. In all the commotion, Jake had run off and Julie had given chase after him. “Go help her,” he commanded, all glee in his voice replaced with ice, and Susie visibly shivered before taking off, tripping over her own feet.

Both Frank and Joey turned back to Meg, who laid there covered in her own blood and unable to do much more than stare at them, but the duo had lost their mojo, disturbed by Jake’s sudden presence. “Gotta say, these survivors are gettin’ ballsy,” Frank admitted, frowning. “Red - what’s the deal with the doomsday prepper comin’ here trying to save you? You shacking up around the campfire or something?”

Meg’s eyes narrowed on him, but she could only cough up blood, the sanguine liquid trickling down her chin. “I… remember,” she wheezed. “Everything. The trials.”

The two killers stiffened slightly. That was unheard of in the Fog; the killers got to remember each sweet kill, each moment of torture, but the survivors’ minds were wiped of specific details to keep the fear fresh and new. If they were suddenly remembering… then the Entity had changed something. It was unsatisfied with the way things were going, and so it stepped in.

To the survivors, the killers were to be feared; but to the killers… it was  _ the Entity  _ who held the true power. 

Both of the Legion members looked more afraid than Meg had ever seen them, and it was funny enough for her to manage a wet laugh, more blood bubbling from her lips. Suddenly a figure moved into the lodge, footsteps surprisingly quiet for his massive size, and Meg’s eyes widened as she fought to control her emotions. Not only had Jake come to help her… 

…  _ He  _ had come, too. 

_ Evan. _

Even though the last look she’d given him was one of utter fear and repulsion. Still, he’d come, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it - other than  _ relieved.  _ Tears streamed from her eyes and she merely watched as he took the two villains by surprise, lifting them both up by their hoodies and slamming them together. The pair dropped with a groan, coming to their senses and brandishing their weapons. “Holy fuck,” Frank growled, shaking his head in a daze. “I  _ knew  _ I’d heard -”

His revelation was cut off by the sinking of Evan’s cleaver into his shoulder. “AGH!” The lithe killer moaned. “That  _ just fucking healed!”  _ Joey had meanwhile stood up and began attempting to jab at his massive enemy; though he’d gotten a few hits in, blood stains blooming on Evan’s overalls, Evan himself seemed to have barely felt it. His jaw merely tightened under that grinning mask of his and he swung an arm so hard into the smaller killer that he went flying all the way out the window, landing in the snow with a thud. 

He turned his attention on Frank, who was more dazed than Joey had been. He wavered on his feet, looking absolutely feral as he began swinging his knife. But the blow to Frank’s head had been a severe one, apparently, because he was clumsy. Evan had him indisposed with a snap of his arm, the bone cracking audibly, and Frank was letting out agonized howls as he dropped like a fly.

Meg watched the entire scene with clouded eyes, trying her best not to let the darkness take her. She’d never been injured outside of a trial before, so fear settled in her gut as she questioned;  _ if she died here, would she come back? Or would she just…  _

_ … become nothing? _

_ Did the Entity decide that it was simply her time to go…? _

As she began slipping, unconsciousness clawing at the corners of her mind, she vaguely saw a shadow of a figure coming over to her, gently hoisting her out of the chair and cradling her to a warm, broad chest. Instinctively Meg curled into that warmth, burying her face in heated skin that smelled like iron, blood, and pine, and allowed the figure to carry her out of the resort.

Somehow she found the strength to lift her head; just enough to see the face of the figure carrying her. Evan stared straight ahead, jaw clenched tightly under his mask, his footsteps steady and even. Focus and rage filled his milky white eyes, his breaths ragged with fury. Fury over what had been done to her…?

“Evan,” she whispered.

He didn’t stop walking, but his steps faltered. White eyes went down to her face as he continued his quick pace. “Quiet,” he rumbled sternly, and Meg obeyed. Settling into him, she focused on the heat of his skin rather than the pain of her wounds; eventually, as he carried her to safety, she succumbed to the darkness.

* * *

The boy was adamant about taking Meg back to the campfire instead of the MacMillan estate. Logically the Trapper knew Meg was probably safest there, he knew he should allow the boy to take her from him to carry her back to her friends; but that animal part of him was loathe to allow her to leave his grasp. That animal part of him told him that was safest where  _ he  _ could protect her. On  _ his  _ grounds.

He’d give Jake one thing; despite his obvious fear, he stuck by the killer’s side as they headed toward the MacMillan estate at a quick pace. Silence reigned for most of the trip; tense and awkward but much preferred to conversation. 

Until Jake piped up. “Why?”

The Trapper glanced sideways and down at the boy who trotted alongside him warily. Dark eyes were looking at him, genuine confusion in their depths. Frankly the killer didn’t have an answer; he never had, not from the beginning. So he grunted, staring forward.

Jake grunted back. “Yeah. That’s how love usually is.”

The Trapper jerked his head back in the boy’s direction, alarm and severe annoyance contorting his features behind the mask. Jake’s lips curled into a small smirk. “Whatever. Sorry for bothering. I usually keep to myself and don’t pry. But this is… well, unheard of, you know?”

Milky white eyes slowly focused back on their destination as the pair encroached on the grounds of the MacMillan estate. Taking her toward one of the smaller houses near the factory, the Trapper ushered the unconscious girl inside and Jake followed, still stiff as a board and extremely wary.  _ Love.  _ He didn’t like the way the boy had said that word. As if he - the Trapper -  _ could  _ love. He hadn’t felt an emotion like that since his mother’s passing, which seemed an eternity ago. He was a monster who enjoyed taking life.

No, he immediately corrected himself. He enjoyed making his father proud. The cruel beatings and wicked snarls had prepared him for the man he’d become, for the things he’d done. Each time he killed, heard his father in his ear:  _ they are weak. Show them strength. _

His father, he realized, had been oddly quiet lately. 

“You… are wrong,” he finally said aloud, alarming the boy. The Trapper set Meg deceptively gently on a shabby, haphazardly created bed in a corner of the wooden building, staring down at her.

“About?” Jake prompted.

“I do not…  _ love  _ her,” the killer explained, voice rough with aggravation. His hands instinctively clenched into fists.

“Whatever,” Jake muttered dismissively, settling down against the wall near Meg. Seeing the gesture, the Trapper focused annoyed white eyes on him. Sensing the unspoken question, Jake rolled his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After a moment of silent warfare, the Trapper relented and sat down himself, close to Meg so that he could be there should she awaken.

And they waited.


	12. A New Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks it's Yoroi back at it again with more MegMillan cuteness. :D And... owo what's this...? A possible Susie x Jake...?

**_12\. A New Connection_ **

**_[ Meeting 103-4; MacMillan Estate. ]_ **

When Meg opened her eyes, her vision was fuzzy and her whole body ached. Feeling something wonderfully plush beneath her, she slowly and painstakingly rolled over to see that she was laying on a  _ bed. _

_ A bed? _

She hadn’t seen a single bed in the entirety of the Fog, not even at the campfire; so where the hell did this come from? It seemed poorly-made, as if thrown together from random scavenged items, but it was leagues better than sleeping on the ground. Sitting up, Meg found herself to be in immense pain - and she realized, looking down, that the wounds she’d received hadn’t disappeared. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes and she looked up to analyze her surroundings so that she wouldn’t have to stare at all the punctures and cuts marring her pale skin. Her breath caught when she saw not one, but two figures slumping against opposing walls right near her little makeshift cot; one was about her size, and the other was enormous. Squinting in the dim light, she noticed one was Jake… and the other was… Evan?

They were both right near her. Both right there; not fighting.  _ Asleep.  _

_ What the hell was going on? _

Meg’s gasp caused one of them to stir; with a low rumble, Evan shifted from the wall and turned his head to watch her. “M-My injuries,” she whimpered, shifting in the cot to look back at him. Everything from before came rushing back in a whirlwind; wandering accidentally onto the grounds of Ormond, being tortured by the Legion, and seeing Jake…  _ and  _ Evan. They had saved her. 

_ Evan had saved her.  _ After the look she’d given him, after the way she’d yelled at him… 

She blinked back more tears and swallowed the lump in her throat, shifting to lean over toward him - as if being only a couple of feet apart simply wasn’t close enough. Strangely enough, despite knowing the whole truth - despite knowing what they’d done in the past - Meg found herself oddly longing for the strength of his embrace and the warmth of his chest. Seeing her shift closer, the killer tensed up, body growing rigid - and his milky white eyes watched her closely. Like a hawk.

It seemed not everything was  _ entirely  _ okay. 

“You saved me,” Meg whispered, unwilling to wake Jake. “Again.”

Evan grunted, his eyes shifting over to the boy against the opposite wall.  _ “He...  _ did.”

Meg followed his gaze. “How did he…? Did Jake…  _ find  _ you?”

The killer nodded, eyes never leaving the woodland survivor. “Came to me,” he murmured. “Said that… survivors… remembered.”

The red-head’s eyes widened. “No… everything?”

“Everything.”

“So they remembered when you…”

“Yes.”

“And is that why Jake came to find  _ you?  _ Why didn’t he take - I don’t know, David or Adam?”

“Don’t know,” Evan rumbled. “He came… to me. Told me… you hadn’t come back. Said… to help… find you.”

Meg’s eyes finally shifted back to Evan’s masked face and she found her fingers itching to take that damn mask off. She’d somehow grown accustomed to seeing the face underneath; scarred, masculine, strong, sharp. “What color were your eyes?” She blurted.

This seemed to yank his attention away from Jake and he stared at her, obviously confused. The red-head’s cheeks flushed with heat as she balked under his gaze. “I-I just… you know.  _ Before  _ all this. What color were they...?”

He was silent for a long time. So long that Meg squirmed and looked away. When she heard his answer it was surprising, yet made perfect sense.  _ “Green,”  _ he murmured. “Dark… green. So dark… almost black.”

Meg found herself suddenly so desperate to see Evan with dark eyes that she nearly lurched forward to take that mask off in hopes they’d be there - and ended up falling off her cot and groaning in pain. The little commotion startled both Evan and Jake; the survivor blinked sleepily while the killer shifted over to help pluck the red-head off the ground. As Evan grabbed her shoulders and Meg leaned on him to steady herself, she looked up at him and caught his gaze - the two stared at each other just long enough for Jake to notice and narrow his eyes. “So it’s true,” he said, voice dry. “One hundred percent true.”

Meg broke away from Evan, still flushed with embarrassment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered.

“You’re falling for a killer, Meg.  _ The Trapper.  _ So what if he saved you a couple of times - do you realize that the scoreboard here isn’t exactly even?!”

“Then why did  _ you  _ look for him when I went missing??” She hissed defensively, sharp blue-gray eyes pinning Jake down. “And his name… is  _ Evan.” _

It was Jake’s turn to squirm, and it seemed in his desperate attempt to think up a comeback, all the recent events came back to him and he stared at them both, stunned. “We… Meg, we remember everything,” he gasped. “All of us. Every trial.”

“Evan told me,” she replied, disturbed.

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “What else did you two have time to do while I was sleeping??”

“Well  _ he  _ had time to kill us both, but he didn’t,” Meg countered irritably, gesturing to the hulking man beside her, who began to shift uncomfortably himself. It was unclear whether it was the accusations or the defense on his behalf that he was uncomfortable with. “So maybe open your mind a little bit and -“

“He  _ killed  _ us, Meg! They all did! You can’t expect me to -“

_ “Enough,”  _ Evan growled, bringing two sets of eyes over to him. “Meg… your wounds.”

Something in the red-head’s chest fluttered at the way he said her name - it was something he rarely ever did - but she followed his gaze down her body and noticed several fresh wet spots on her jersey. “They’re usually gone by now,” she mumbled faintly. Her eyes instinctively roamed the brutish man’s body for any injuries and found several spots on his overalls. Suddenly unconcerned about her own, the red-head reached for the buckle on his overalls to undo them and get a better look.

“Ugh,” Jake grumbled. “I’ll just… be outside if you need me, Meg.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed in response, too distracted by tending to Evan’s wounds to fully reply. She saw several stab wounds, probably desperate attempts from Frank and Joey to bring the giant down before he disposed of them. They still looked fairly fresh - which was concerning. The Entity usually healed wounds quickly, preparing their bodies for a fresh onslaught of torture.

So why weren’t theirs gone??

“Your wounds… are worse,” Evan argued, trying to pull away from her.

“Shut up, you dumb turtle!” Meg reached for him, thankful for the gauze she had on her jacket pocket. She kept it with her to wrap up her ankles whenever she ran a bit farther than normal, to keep the swelling down. She used some of it to soak up the seeping blood. “Why is it black…?” She questioned, both disgusted and curious at the way it looked so inky in color compared to her own red blood. She also asked the question aloud to keep herself distracted from the fact that she was touching the man’s bare body - the man’s  _ very strong, very built  _ bare body. He was made like a goddamn brick house and it was hard not to think about the way his muscles jumped and flexed under her touch, or how strong and taut each ridge and curve felt under her fingers. She was suddenly very aware of their close proximity and, despite her own severe injuries, her mind couldn’t help but go back to the sexual encounters they’d had during trials, ones she could now remember - and though they had never fully copulated, never even shared a  _ kiss,  _ she could remember the bone-shattering pleasure she’d felt when his proud member slid over her clit, or the squeals that came from her every time he pinched a stiffened nipple or slid his rough hands down her body. 

While she remembered the cruel grin under his mask and the way he relished in her confliction and guilt, she also knew it was much more than that. She could now identify the way he always looked at her - he was  _ hungry  _ for her. And she could only just now see it. 

But that hunger had always been there.

Meg suddenly realized she hadn’t even heard his answer to her question and she blushed hotly, biting on her lip. “I-I erm… what did you say?”

“It is… the Entity’s possession,” he grunted, tensing up as she began wrapping the wound. Having to put her arms around her body brought Meg even closer to the giant of a man and both of them seemed to have frozen as she tipped her head back to look up at him, feeling the heat of his body against him, sensing the way his hands were clenching at his sides with the effort of not touching her - though whether he wanted to pull her closer or push her away, Meg couldn’t tell. The more the red-head gazed up at him, however, the more she suspected it was the latter. He seemed extremely avoidant of her, moreso than usual, and she couldn’t figure out why, especially considering the lengths he went to to save her…

She continued wrapping the gauze around his torso, trying not to stare. “Everything is going to be different now,” she murmured, thinking back to what he’d told her about the survivors remembering everything. “Do you think…” she paused. “Do you think that the Entity is doing all this on purpose? Do you think that we’re going to… to get out of the Fog?”

Evan stiffened. The question seemed surprising to him - as if he’d been pondering the same thing himself. “I… don’t know.”

The red-head pursed her lips and puffed her cheeks. “You -  _ again  _ with the unsatisfying answers! Can’t you give me a conversation you big dumb turtle?!”

The monstrous man’s eyes were utterly piercing as he met her gaze, so much so that Meg sucked in a breath and balked under his stare. His hand came up - instinctively she braced herself for pain before reminding herself that this was  _ Evan,  _ not the Trapper - and she glowed with warmth when his large, rough hand met her cheek and caressed the skin in a gesture so tender she would have once believed him incapable of doing.  _ “You,”  _ he murmured, voice low and rumbling, “are… important.”

Her brows furrowed. Without thinking she reached her hand up, resting it over his own on her cheek. The warmth of his touch was astounding; but still she was able to manage, “y-you mean… to the Entity? Do you think I’m the cause of all this?”

He shook his head, his jaw working behind his mask as if reluctant to admit the real answer. Finally, he growled, “Important…  _ to me.” _

“B-But…  _ why?”  _ Meg found herself blurting, before clamping her mouth shut and glancing away. Frankly, she found herself thinking of  _ him  _ as extremely important to her as well, and she couldn’t for the life of her fathom why - so to demand answers of him was unfair. 

But he finally came up with an answer. “The first time… I saw you… you hadn’t seen  _ me.  _ You were lost… and confused… but you had… confidence. And you were so…  _ fast.  _ You  _ watched and learned.  _ You are… observant. Smart. And…” he rumbled lowly; as if trying to decide whether to finish the thought. “... beautiful.”

Meg tried to blink back the tears threatening to spill over the corners of her eyes and she let out a shaky breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “That… that might be the most I’ve ever heard you say,” she squeaked, holding back a sniffle and giving him a rueful look.

She saw his lips quirk behind the mask and a low growl came from him; something akin to his attempt at a laugh. It was oddly charming; instinctively Meg leaned her face into his palm and he stiffened up at the gesture. As if he made a mistake and was now regretting his boldness. “We need… to take care of… your injuries,” he mumbled, withdrawing his hand.

Meg found herself missing the warmth and gave him a doe-like stare before shifting back, finishing up her work. With that she offered him the gauze and sat back to allow him to tend to her. When he hesitated, she gave him a questioning look. “Your… clothes,” he mumbled, looking more embarrassed and  _ human  _ than she’d ever seen him in this hellhole. 

It reminded her that… before all this, he was a man.  _ Just a man. _

The thought of removing her clothes in front of him made her blush even though he’d already seen her naked on a couple of occasions; it almost felt, however, like that had been in another lifetime and that they were starting over fresh. Shyly, the red-head removes her jacket and then slid her jersey up and off, goosebumps covering her pale skin. When she looked down her mind instantly shifted from embarrassment to horror as she saw just how bad the wounds really were. Adrenaline had been keeping her from screaming in pain, apparently, because multiple stabs and cuts littered her torso like a horrific mural. The Legion had had quite a time with her before Jake and Evan had shown up.

A sharp, angry growl drew her terrified stare from her body and she found Evan’s chest heaving in deep, bear-like breaths, his shoulder muscles flexing with fury. The mere sight of him so angry, so angry over  _ her,  _ sent a thrill through her. “It’s okay,” she reassured, reaching out for his shoulder but stopping just short. Evan set to work, his hands moving with deceptive grace and agility despite how large they were. He was a true hunter, being as gentle and focused with her injuries as he was with his traps. It was exceedingly lucky that she had enough gauze for the both of them; though her wounds still aches and wouldn’t get much better without some medicine, the dressing did help. 

Thanking him ruefully and tugging her blood-stained jersey back on, Meg tipped her head back to look up at him as she sat across from him; he suddenly avoided looking at her. “You should… speak with… your friend,” Evan interrupted quietly as she reached for his mask. 

Meg stopped just short of him once more and paused, giving him a wary look. Finally she let it go and got up, leaving the wooden building. As she did, she quickly recognized the place to be the MacMillan estate; she could see the factory building in the distance and the heavy night sky looming over them. Jake sat atop a crate of junk, staring out at the trees encroaching on the property. When Meg approached shakily, he tilted his head at her. “Feeling a little better?” He asked.

“My injuries… they haven’t… Jake, something is different.”

“You can say that again,” he muttered. “That crap that went down in Ormond… I’ve never heard of anything like it happening in the Fog.”

Meg hobbled over and, with his help, sat down on the junk pile beside him. “Yeah, uhm… no offense, but… how the  _ hell  _ did you get away from Julie and Susie?”

“That’s their names? Huh. Yeah, it was…” he paused. “Weird.” Meg waited for him to continue. Still looking out at the estate, the woodsy survivor swung his legs and took his time explaining. 

_ “Yeah, come and get me!” Jake taunted, even stopping for a moment to smack his own rear for added effect. He could hear the masked killer growling in frustration behind him; another glance back told him that the second female of the motley crew wasn’t far behind the first one. _

_ Two of them. He was going up against two of them. And he didn’t have a single fucking thing to defend himself.  _

_ This wasn’t good. _

_ He hoped the Trapper was having better luck; although he was going up against the two males of the group, he was also a seven foot tall monster with a rusty cleaver, so Jake thought the odds were pretty damn fair. As long as he got Meg out of there, that was what was important. _

_ The female Legion caught up to him rather quickly, grabbing him by the back of his jacket as he tried to dart around a tree. “You wanna taunt us, you little shit?” the woman hissed, throwing him backwards to the ground.  _

_ Jake hit the dirt with a grunt, glaring up at her and attempting to scramble away. “Yeah. I do. It’s pretty fun watching you lose your temper,” he growled back, attempting to get to his feet. The woman stomped on his leg with her boot, extracting a low groan from him and effectively keeping him on the ground.  _

_ At that point the second girl had caught up to them, bracing her hands on her knees and catching her breath. “How the fuck are you gonna be one of us if a short distance like that puts you out?” the first one growled, keeping her boot firmly on Jake’s thigh.  _

_ “I-I’m sorry,” the second one, the one with the long pink hair, responded nervously, sounding genuinely upset. “I-I just - Frank told me to… uhm…” _

_ “To help?” The first one spat, keeping her knife bared. “Yeah, you’re doing great. Why don’t you just go back to the lodge and hang yourself from a hook? That would be more ‘help’ than anything. Cunt.” _

_ Jake looked back and forth between the two, a plan quickly formulating in his mind. A desperate one, a foolish one, but a plan nonetheless. Finally he glanced over at the one with the long hair, frowning. “This is a weird friendship,” he muttered. “I’ve never had my friends talk to  _ me  _ like that.” _

_ The two women turned to look at him.  _ “Shut up,”  _ the first one growled, digging her boot in and causing him to wince. “Or I’ll cut your tongue out. And I’ll enjoy doing it.” _

_ “I’m just saying,” Jake grunted, shifting under her weight and focusing on the shy one, “real friends are more encouraging. Why even bother to help them out if they don’t appreciate you?” _

_ “T-They’re my friends!” the girl protested in a slight whine, clutching at her sleeves unsurely. Her whole posture screamed nervousness, as if she was completely out of her element - and Jake used that to his advantage. _

_ “Are they? Could have fooled me. They don’t seem to even want you around.” Jake winced again as the first one lowered herself onto him, putting the knife to her throat. His breath hitched and he glanced up at her, trying not to show how truly nervous he was, speaking this time to them both, mustering up all the bravado he could. “This isn’t part of the Entity’s plan. You saw what happened when the Trapper disobeyed, didn’t you? The Entity is gonna punish all of you for getting out of line. You’re just as much prisoners here as we are. Why don’t you do the smart thing… and just let us go?” _

_ The two women exchanged looks before the one on top of him pressed her blade into the skin, drawing a little blood. “I think you’re lying, you fucking twat boy, and now you’re gonna die for it.” _

_ “W-Wait! Julie!” the second girl protested, grabbing her wrist before she could make the cut. An enraged growl came from the first as her hand was forced back; the second nervously added, “w-what if he’s right? We should t-think about this!” _

_ “Fuck off, you mewling little bitch!” the first girl sneered, yanking her hand away. _

_ The killer with the long pink hair grabbed her friend’s arm again, suddenly sounding much more angry. “H-He’s  _ right,”  _ she whined. “You guys never listen to me! About anything! And it always gets us in loads of trouble!!” _

_ “Maybe we’d listen to you if you grew a pair of fucking BALLS, Susie!” the first one screeched, yanking away once more and sending the pair into a tumble. Jake used the opportunity to get to his feet just as they did; before the first one could launch herself at him, the second one latched onto her and they began their struggle anew.  _

_ Jake hesitated, looking between them; the shy girl with the long hair looked over at him briefly and though she wore a mask to shield her expression, he heard the message loud and clear:  _ ‘go.’

_ He gave her the briefest of nods before running off, hoping against hope that the Trapper was able to save his dear friend. _

Meg stared at the ground as Jake finished recounting the tale, her mind going in circles. “I can’t believe Susie stood up to Julie like that,” she finally said. “You must’ve really gotten to her. Susie’s kind of a wimp.”

“I think I can relate, in a way,” Jake replied with a far-away look. “Having someone you so badly want to impress that you hide pieces of yourself and do things that repulse you just to please them… she just needs to learn that she doesn’t owe them anything. Maybe then she can break away from that vicious cycle. That’s eventually what I had to do.”

Meg stared at him with raised brows. It was only when he finally met her eyes and blinked in confusion that she spoke. “It’s strange to hear you talking about a killer as if they’re a real person and not just a monster,” she admitted.

“Imagine my shock when I found out you liked the damn  _ Trapper  _ of all people.”

“I - I don’t -” she stammered, feeling her face flush. “It’s… I-It’s  _ complicated.”  _ She jabbed his shoulder accusingly. “And like I said, his name is  _ Evan.” _

“Don’t you ever wonder what they did before they came here? Why they were chosen to be killers, and not survivors?” Jake countered, swinging his legs. “Like… don’t you ever wonder which ones were always bad eggs… and which ones were just…  _ normal people?” _

“Well if I’ve ever seen a bad egg, it’s gotta be the Shape,” Meg said with a small shudder. “I looked right into that mask on so many occasions… even as I died… and I saw  _ nothing.  _ Like he was a…  _ soulless husk.” _

Jake was silent for a long moment. “The Wraith has never looked angry to me,” he began. “Like when I look at him… I see…  _ sadness  _ behind his eyes. Like he feels as trapped here as we do. I guess I’ve just never thought about it before, because I was so focused on just -  _ surviving.” _

“We’ve been blinded to a lot of things in this world,” Meg said grimly, hands suddenly clenching hard on the ledge of the pallet they sat on. “The Entity did this. And now my wounds - and Evan’s wounds - aren’t healing. Something is going horribly wrong.”

Jake’s gloved hand suddenly came up to his throat, brushing over the clean skin absent-mindedly. “Funny… The one named Julie cut me a little when she climbed on top of me… and it’s gone. Just like all the other injuries.” He lowered his hand, glancing at Meg with piercing dark eyes. “Looks like the Entity’s got it out for you. Makes sense… since you’re the ones who’ve started this entire collapse.”

Meg set a hand on her aching abdomen, pain gnawing at her in a constant dull throb. “This is the beginning of something entirely new, isn’t it?” she whispered, leaning on her friend.

Jake settled an arm around her. “Maybe it’s the beginning of the end.”


	13. The Red Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Pumped this bad boy out overnight so apologies if there are any mistakes in grammar, spelling, etc... anywho, hope you all like where this is going! Let me know what you think! And as always, THANK YOU for reading! ♥️

**_13\. The Red Strings_ **

**_[ Meeting 106; Father Campbell’s Chapel. ]_ **

Over the next week (or thereabouts, it was hard to tell time in this wasteland), strange occurrences continued to happen. Meg’s injuries from her encounter with the Legion took much longer than normal to heal, and when they did, they’d left scars all over her where no other injuries had. The few times she’d seen Evan since then, it seemed his body was going through something similar. It was strange how the Entity would heal her in-game wounds like any other survivor, keeping her alive for the next trial, and yet those particular wounds remained a permanent reminder of her disobedience. 

The survivors, now remembering all the horrors of the previous trials, grew restless. Angry, even. Knowing the extent of the damage that had been done, and seeing how long it had been going on, they longed now more than ever to just  _ escape  _ this hellish world and return to a semblance of normalcy.

Oddly enough, more than a few of the killers had begun showing the same frustrations. It really did seem that the actions of both Meg and Evan had flipped the Fog upside down, and now things seemed to be rapidly heading toward a “collapse,” as Jake had been saying. During one of the most recent trials, the Pig had Meg on the ground, a head trap in her hands - but instead of fixing it to Meg’s face, she tossed it aside, grumbled angrily, and stalked off, just leaving the red-head there with a stab wound in her shoulder. Many similar occurrences had been happening; such as the Oni going haywire and destroying a hook in his rage rather than beating a survivor bloody, or the Wraith walking the entirety of a map cloaked and never lifting his weapon or ringing his wailing bell. He merely watched, hidden, as the survivors repaired their generators and powered the gates.

The strangest thing of all -  _ the red strings. _

_ The first time it had happened, Meg had been hiding in some bushes next to Claudette, both of them trying their absolute best to keep their panicked breathing quiet as the Hillbilly revved up his chainsaw nearby. The deformed killer had thrown an exceeding amount of tantrums lately, lashing out not just at survivors, but at random objects, too. Dwight recounted to the rest of them the time he’d stood by and watched in horror as the Hillbilly screamed and razed down a locker in his frustration. _

_ And after that, he’d left him alone. _

_ Meg felt Claudette squeeze her hand anxiously as they continued to hide, hoping against hope that Tapp and Nea were sensible enough to stay away. Suddenly she heard Claudette gasp beside her and her gaze darted over to see the dark-skinned survivor clutching at her chest in a panic; Meg’s own eyes widened as she immediately recognized the object sticking out of the space where her heart was. _

_ A red string. _

_ Looking off into the distance, trying to see where the wobbling string led to, she bit down on her lip to keep from making a sound as she realized where the red string connected. _

_ It was attached to the Hillbilly himself. _

_ “I wonder if he sees it,” she whispered, earning a look of utter confusion from Claudette. Although the survivors had discussed a lot of things over the campfire during the past week, Meg had never mentioned the fateful red string that connected Evan and herself. In fact, any time any of the others questioned her about the killer, she changed topic or refused to answer; she didn’t feel like dealing with the disgusted looks, the protests, or the lectures. She knew how crazy it all was. She didn’t need to be told. _

_ Meg frowned slightly. “The red string. It’s connecting you to…” _

_ Claudette began hyperventilating, and it took Meg settling comforting hands on her shoulders to calm her down and keep her from succumbing to a full panic attack. “Does that mean I’m going to die?” she whispered, horrified. “What does this  _ mean?”

_ Meg bit down on her lip. “No, don’t worry,” she murmured, touching the other girl’s cheek in an attempt to soothe her. “It just means… that you’re… connected.” _

_ “Connected?” Claudette’s voice wavered. “Has this ever happened before?? Is this another thing the Entity is summoning up to punish us??” _

_ Meg hesitated in answering. Finally: “it’s happened once. With me and… uhm, the Trapper.” _

_ “Is that why he saved you…?” _

_ “I…” the red-head swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I-I think so. Who knows?” _

_ Their hushed conversation was interrupted by ragged breathing and the two women looked up with increasing dread to see the Hillbilly hovering right in front of them, staring at them with those eerie white eyes. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t thrown a tantrum, hadn’t even decided to hit them with his hammer. Claudette let out a bone-chilling scream and got up, turning to dart off, but Meg, for some reason unbeknownst to even herself, grabbed the ravenette’s arm and held fast, keeping her there. The red-head gazed up at the killer, her head tilting curiously. “You see it too, don’t you?” she questioned; though her curiosity was strong, her stance was indeed rigid, poised and ready to run at any moment. Her grip on Claudette’s arm was like iron; and though the dark-skinned woman’s eyes went between the two with utter panic and confusion on her face, she didn’t try to yank away - she only waited there, whimpering in fear. _

_ Meg was still wary, still had that runner’s instinct; ever the brave Little Rabbit. But by this point, she knew better; things were changing, killers were breaking protocol, and this may be yet another thing to add to the list of crazy. The Hillbilly’s gaze shifted from Meg, lowering to his own chest. He dropped his hammer to rest his hand over his chest in a surprisingly slow and gentle motion; then his hand moved through the air, following the string between them, reaching out for Claudette - who screamed and braced herself for pain, but was held fast by Meg’s grasp on her arm.  _

_ Then his index finger touched her, just over her heart, lingering there for a few moments. Claudette was trembling from head to toe, but her eyes finally opened, fixating on his finger before lifting up to his scarred and deformed face. “Wh… why are we connected?” she asked, voice barely choking back tears. _

_ The Hillbilly merely continued to breathe in that ragged, animal way of his; though his deformed mouth worked, as if looking for a way to answer her, nothing came out; but he kept that finger pressed to her heart. That was Meg’s answer: he saw it too, and he was just as confused by the presence of the string as they were. When his gaze went back to Claudette, he merely tilted his head, something new in his expression. No anger. No rage. No guilt. Just… curiosity. As if he was seeing her for the first time, truly seeing her.  _

_ The hand on her chest moved upward, and Claudette visibly flinched - the small gesture made the Hillbilly’s hand pause briefly, and that alone caught Meg’s attention. He was watching Claudette closely for her reactions - what made her uncomfortable - and reacting accordingly. It only seemed to reinforce the notion Meg had developed that many of these killers… they truly were once humans, dragged into this mess just like the survivors were.  _

_ Slowly the Hillbilly’s hand lifted to Claudette’s hair and he gently tugged on one of her dreads - the playfulness of the gesture was absolutely shocking. Claudette blinked, suddenly trembling less than before, and she looked at him differently now, too. The dark-skinned woman had always been one of the most open, accepting people Meg had ever met; she couldn’t help but think that if this were David or Nea, that they would have run off by now - or in David’s case, punched the Hillbilly right in the nose. “What’s… y-your name?” Claudette managed to squeak out. _

_ “Mmmmm,” the killer attempted, lowering his hand and lumbering just a little closer. Claudette flinched again, but remained her ground; though Meg still had the faint suspicion that it was only her tight grip keeping the ravenette in place. _

_ “Mmm?” Meg prompted. “Mark? Mason?” _

_ He shook his head. “Mmmmm… aaaaaa…” he rasped, very clearly not used to speech. Meg wondered, looking at him, if he’d even learned  _ how  _ to talk - or read or write. Considering his deformities, she doubted he’d ever been educated.  _

_ “... M-Max?” Claudette whimpered. _

_ His eyes seemed to light up. He gave her a nod. About that time, they heard the loud sound of the gates being powered up, and it startled the trio out of their reverie. Claudette clutched onto Meg, who’d moved closer to her, fear still evident on her face, though it mingled with curiosity and a sort of awe. “M-Max,” Claudette began, voice trembling, “d-do you think y-you could… let us… g-go?” _

_ He stared at her for a long moment. As if trying to burn her face into his mind. Then he stepped aside to let them go. _

_ And even though they both ran away as quickly as they could, Meg saw in the corner of her vision that Claudette was looking back. Curious. _

Since then, it had happened several more times - Kate and Quentin woke one evening to find a red string connecting them while Dwight and David had a similar connection, and during one trial Feng had found her fateful red string connecting right to the chest of the Doctor, who was cackling like a maniac and doing nothing but zapping them the whole time. During the ‘collapse,’ as Jake had called it, other batshit insane things had happened, like two killers showing up in one trial, or missing hooks or generators, or different maps blending together; during those times, Meg had noticed some of the killers developing red strings of fate amongst themselves - such as the Wraith and the Nurse… and the Pig and the Cannibal. They’d all reacted it to it very differently - Meg remembered the Wraith moving over to the Nurse and simply staring at her like they’d known each other their entire lives. Like the love that enveloped them transcended the Fog and even their former lives. The Pig, however, had been extremely irritated while the Cannibal just seemed happy to have a ‘new friend.’

Red strings continued popping up everywhere - and, it seemed, the upcoming trial would be no exception. Meg awoke to find herself inside Father Campbell’s chapel; down in the circus caravan below, she saw Jake shaking his head and getting to his feet next to Quentin. She waved silently to them and both boys noticed, waving back up to her. Together the two started working on a generator down below, though their attempts were lackluster. Everyone’s had been; both killer and survivor alike. 

Seeing a closed trap on the stairwell, Meg was suddenly filled with conflicting feelings; excitement at the prospect of seeing Evan again, but dread at the thought of how he might look at her. He’d been avoiding her since he’d saved her from the Legion, and she couldn’t figure out why. The red string connecting them was stronger than ever, and she felt like they’d broken through a barrier in the Fog. They’d done that  _ together.  _ All because he… 

Well, he had feelings for her, didn’t he? Was that why he avoided her? Because he was battling them? Or… was it because she’d misread this entire situation and assumed he had feelings for her, and he didn’t know how to let her down?

At one point Meg would’ve thought that this entire thought process was absolutely insane; thinking about a killer this way and wondering if he felt the same way about her. But after all she’d seen in the last week, she was beginning to think that anything was possible.

And, she reminded herself, underneath that terrible grinning mask… Evan was still  _ just a man. _

A man who she firmly believed had done nothing to deserve the torment of endlessly killing in the Fog. Maybe when she saw him… maybe… she would ask who he was. Who he used to be. 

* * *

Every waking moment, he’d been thinking about that damned boy.

Or, more specifically, what that damned boy had said.

_ “Yeah. That’s how love usually is.” _

The little scraggly-haired fool didn’t know what he was talking about.  _ Make him see how foolish he is,  _ his father growled.  _ He is weak. Show him - show them all - how strong you are. He must pay. _

He’d grown quite used to ignoring the whispers of his father lately, although he couldn’t say the temptation wasn’t still there. Beating something that had been drilled into him for years? Nigh impossible. That was something only an eternity of being trapped in the Fog could start to erase. And it had. Even before he’d given Meg that sketch, the voice of his father had been slowly waning, being replaced with ever-present misery and exhaustion. Evan wanted to rest. He no longer felt strong, like the fierce hunter he’d been upon arriving here; but being around Meg… the Little Rabbit… she had shown him that maybe… maybe there was something to hold onto, after all. 

He thought about how she corrected Jake when he’d called him the Trapper. “His name is  _ Evan,”  _ she’d snapped, leaving no room for argument.

If she thought his title no longer applied… maybe he could let go of it, too.

Appearing on the grounds of the Chapel with a trap in one hand and his cleaver in the other, Evan lifted the trap to examine it, reminiscing. Once upon a time, these had been his greatest weapon. Not only had he learned to hunt game with the methodically and carefully set traps, but he’d captured many a survivor in them, too. They had made him strong; formidable;  _ a threat.  _

Now they drained him.

Tossing it aside and watching it hit the dirt with a clatter, he began walking the grounds, wondering if he’d see  _ her  _ amongst the survivors. Not that he would know what to do if he did… he had been avoiding her lately, utterly confused and irritated by Jake’s words; words that couldn’t seem to leave his brain no matter how hard he tried to push them out.

Evan couldn’t - wouldn’t - believe it. He’d never loved anyone except… except his mother. And for a long time, he believed he loved his father, too - but realized after decades of contemplation in the Fog that it was misguided. His father had made him  _ strong;  _ but he had also made him  _ weak. Crippled him _ .

Evan paused in his stride the moment he saw Meg in the upper floors of the Chapel; she worked on a generator, blue-gray eyes focused on her work, a strand of red hair falling into her face. He was just as struck by her beauty now as he had been the first time he saw her; although his physical reaction was entirely different. The first time he’d glimpsed Meg, he remembered wanting to corner her. Like a predator to prey, he’d wanted to grab her, squeeze the life out of her intimately, because he hadn’t known any other way to deal with the strange emotions he’d felt. He wanted to hurt her. To smear her beauty so he wouldn’t have to face it anymore.

And now, he wanted to bask in it; to let her wash over him like the sweet rays of a morning sun. 

_ Yeah. That’s how love usually is. _

Evan turned away, clenching his cleaver in a white-knuckled grip. Finding another survivor - the one named Kate - messing around with a totem near a pile of junk, he lazily swung at her; even if she hadn’t dodged lithely out of the way, he doubted he would have hit her. “My word - you’re gettin’ lazy!” She chided, though there was still fear in her posture. He was still a killer after all, and she a survivor. 

He rumbled and gave chase as she ran, her trail leading him around the map. One large step caused something to pull in his abdomen and he paused, seeing fresh blood seeping through his dirty overalls. The wounds he’d sustained from the male members of the Legion still hadn’t fully healed yet; he assumed this was more of the Entity’s punishment, keeping him in pain like this. With a low growl, Evan continued on his way until his chase led him over to the circus. There Kate was working on a generator with two others; the woodland boy, Jake, and another one he remembered all too well. He’d once thought this boy was too close to Meg and had given him a death so brutal that it had been sickening. Even for him.

When that boy saw him, his face went pale and his bloodshot, sleepless blue-green eyes widened in dread. Quentin stumbled back from the generator, and immediately Kate caught him, looping her arms around him protectively. Looking at them, Evan could tell that they were  _ close -  _ closer, even, than Meg and Quentin. That was when he saw it - a red string, connecting their hearts. He’d seen some of the other killers, like Philip and Sally, develop connections of their own, but he hadn’t known so many had been popping up. 

This was surprising indeed.

Evan tilted his head, examining the string between them as Jake continued to bravely work on the generator. Kate’s eyes narrowed angrily on Evan. “Now  _ shoo!”  _ She hissed, still holding Quentin protectively. “You’re never gonna hurt him again - you hear me, you ol’ bully?? You’ll have to get through  _ me  _ from now on!”

Quentin shook his head, clutching onto Kate. Though his eyes never left the killer, his words were directed at the beautiful blonde. “I-It’s okay, Kate… Your life is worth more than mine.”

“What utter horse-shit,” she spat, tightening her arms around him. “Now you just quit all that. You’re  _ always  _ sacrificin’ yourself for others. It’s about damn time someone did the same for you.”

Evan’s rumble disturbed them from their passionate argument. “No… no more,” the killer said. “You’re… safe.”

Quentin, although he had surely heard of and witnessed all the craziness going on the past week, didn’t seem convinced; though Kate’s expression mollified, she didn’t loosen her grip on the curly-haired teen. Meanwhile Jake had finished repairing the generator and was watching Evan closely. 

“Meg was in the Chapel, last time I saw her,” the woodland boy said. “Gonna avoid her like usual?”

Evan’s expression hardened. “Not… avoiding,” he growled. 

“Yeah. Sure. And I’m Mexican.” Jake rolled his eyes, moving over to the other two and ushering them away. 

Evan stood there for what seemed like forever, staring at the bright lights of the finished generator and wondering how the hell things had gotten to this point. A soft voice finally broke him from his thoughts and he turned slowly around to see Meg watching him warily. “Hey.”

His shoulders tensed and he immediately dropped his cleaver, staring hard at her. Memorizing every detail of her face yet wanting desperately to tear his eyes away. Silently he waited for her to say something - and eventually she did.

But what she asked filled his chest with ice. “Who were you?” Meg asked quietly, taking a curious step toward him. Then another. “I’ve become convinced that many of you killers were just… normal people, dragged from your lives to be thrown in here. Just like us. And I… I was curious… what did you do before you were taken, Evan? Who… who were you?”

Evan remained silent for a long time, so long in fact that Meg shifted uncomfortably and let out a sigh. “I get it,” she muttered. “Still avoiding me. Although I don’t know why.”

“You won’t…” he managed, jaw working for an answer behind his mask. “Like… the answer.”

Her brows furrowed. “The answer to what? Why you’re avoiding me, or who you were?”

He let out a frustrated grunt. Finally, he said, “Evan… MacMillan. Is my name.”

“Evan MacMillan,” she pondered aloud. “Must be why your realm is called the MacMillan Estate… from the looks of it, it used to be some sort of… mining operation? Is that right?” She questioned.

Evan grit his teeth. Digging up his past was painful - and bound to change her view of him. He wasn’t ready for her look at him with pain and disgust again; he wasn’t ready to lose the warmth of her tiny hands or the smiles she gave him.

But if he lied, if he kept the truth hidden from her, he knew the results would be disastrous.

“Largest… in Seattle,” he murmured, shoulders sagging with the decision to explain. “My father… he… was strong. Ruled his workers… with an iron fist. Crushed them. Put them… in their place.”

Meg made a face. “He sounds like a horrible man.”

Evan flinched. His instinct was to tell her she was  _ wrong,  _ that his father was  _ strong  _ and  _ capable  _ and  _ smart,  _ but he bit his tongue. Because although for a long time, Evan refused to see it,  _ couldn’t  _ see it, he knew now that… Meg had a point. “Raised me… the same. I made friends… with the workers. Father found out… punished me. He instructed me… to do things. Bad things.”

Meg blanched. Though she didn’t retreat or step back, her little hands did clench into anxious fists. “And you did them,” she whispered.

His voice was tired. Shamed. “Yes.”

_ “Why…?” _

“He told me… it made me strong. He told me… I showed my worth… by punishing the weak. Break their will… break their spirit.”

Meg was incredulous. Tears brimmed the corners of her eyes. “And you  _ believed  _ him?”

“He… raised me to.”

She bit down on her lip to keep it from trembling. Seeing the horror on her face was withering. “What exactly did you  _ do,  _ Evan…”

A growl left him. He went quiet again, the words stuck in his throat and unwilling to come out. Finally, he rumbled, “I… led over a hundred men… into the mine.” He tried to control the wavering in his low, rough voice. “Detonated the explosives. Killed them all.”

Meg’s jaw dropped. She stared at him for a long while, tears streaming down her cheeks; Evan felt a strange surge of anger fill his chest. He knew it was the grip of his father when he had the sudden fleeting desire to beat the look of shock off of her face. Of course a  _ worm  _ would look at him like he’d done something wrong - like he was a murderer. He was showing those maggots their place, he was putting them all out of their rotten misery, doing just as father would have done -

Evan shook himself out of it, shocked at how indignant he’d become. Seeing Meg’s reaction now filled him with shame and he had to look away from her; though his father continued to whisper, he forced the thoughts down with a clench of his fists. 

Meg’s wavering voice shook him from his trance. “You… you are a monster,” she whimpered.

He closed his eyes. Felt his skin crawl. “Yes.”

“You deserve to be here.” Meg’s voice was almost a sob. With that, she turned and ran away.

“Yes,” Evan murmured, watching her go.

* * *

Meg hastily wiped the tears from her eyes, grateful for the wind blowing in her ears and the cold air on her face as she ran as hard as she could. Crossing the map, she met up with Jake - immediately skidding to a halt when she saw who else was there. Immediately the red-head went on the defensive, prepared to bolt and drag Jake with her if needed.

Sitting on top of one of the piles of junk was Susie, swinging her feet innocently and playing with her knife almost sheepishly. Jake’s posture was rigid, but he hadn’t made a move to run away which was surprising in and of itself. Seeing another killer in the trial was unnerving, but it wasn’t the first time it had happened during all this insanity. “Oh,” Susie hummed, her knife lowering when she saw Meg. “It’s… you.”

The red-head snarled, not in the mood to deal with any attitude. Not when she was still reeling from the horrible revelation of what Evan had done - who he was. Why was she in this constant back-and-forth with him? One moment believing him to be a good person, the next thinking he’s a monster?

She shook herself out of it. There wasn’t any going back from what he’d told her this time. There wasn’t any way she could forgive a man who’d killed over a hundred innocent people.

But she’d forgiven the man who’d killed her and her friends… hadn’t she?

Meg’s angry blue-gray eyes fixated on Susie. “You mind telling me what the hell you're doing here?”

Susie seemed to tense up; but Meg couldn’t tell whether it was for a particular reason or just her usual shy self. “I don’t know…” she managed. “I-I just - wound up here! I-I… wanted to get away from the others, anyways… but I’m kinda glad I-I found Jake here… h-he really… uhm, inspired me.”

Both Meg and Jake seemed stunned by the confession. They exchanged glances before Jake focused back on the masked girl, eyes narrowing. “So you’re not here to kill us?” He demanded.

“O-Oh, no,” she insisted, tossing the knife away and clutching at her hands nervously. “K-Killing was never really my thing… I-I just wanted to…”

“... fit in,” Jake finished pensively. “I know what that’s like.”

Meg took a step back. This conversation seemed way too personal for her to be involved; like she was intruding on a private moment. But as she did, a collective gasp brought her attention back to them and she found them both staring at themselves - and each other.

And a red string stretched from Jake’s heart, right to Susie’s.

Jake reacted the way he did when presented with anything confusing or uncertain; cynicism. “So the Entity’s decided to fuck with us, huh?” He muttered, looking up at the dark sky and throwing up his hands. 

“W-what the hell is this thing supposed to be?! G-get it off!” Susie protester, scrambling off of the junk pile and tripping over her own two feet. She fell - right into Jake. While he remained upright, he stumbled and his arms instinctively went out to brace her. The gesture was intimate enough to surprise them both and the masked girl lifted her head to stare at him. The tension was thick enough to slice with a knife, and Meg at this point was too stunned to give them the privacy she thought was needed. 

“You’re connected,” the red-head breathed, and both of them broke from each other as if burned by the contact, looking over at her. “The red string connects you. Bonds you.”

“Like you and the Trapper,” Jake muttered.

Meg felt her heart clench painfully at the mention of the monster. This time, she had no impulse to correct him over the name.

Jake’s eyes shifted back to Susie, who had wrapped her arms around herself, looking almost like a lost child. Something in his expression softened - and he leaned on the wall behind him, folding his arms over his chest and watching her. “Why do you feel the need to impress them?” He asked.

Susie balked under his stare, fidgeting with her hands. “T-they’re my friends,” she stuttered.

“I wasn’t bullshitting when I said real friends encourage each other,” he replied. “Those people aren’t your friends. They’re using you. Why do you care so much what they think??”

The girl looked scared. Which was weird, considering Jake was the survivor here, not her. “I-I just  _ do!” _

Jake’s lips quirked slightly. “You shouldn’t.”

* * *

Back at the campfire, all the survivors were abuzz with all the insane things that had been happening lately. The convergence of the maps, the red strings that had formed between different people; the killers’ different reactions to the recent changes. “Some’a these killas just don’t give a shite no more,” David grunted, huddled close to Dwight, who leaned on him. “They want ta get out much as we do. But some’o’em - they  _ like it.  _ Some’o’em are jus’ - bad eggs. Like that Clown. Could give ‘im a right pass outta here and he’d laugh at yeh.”

“The Shape…” Nea shuddered, casting a glance over at Bill, Ash and Tapp, who were tucked away by a tree, conversations quietly amongst themselves. The older men seemed to be in a world of their own most of the time, keeping to themselves except to help the younger survivors through a trial. Nea’s eyes returned to the fire and she pulled her knees to her chest. “He’s got eyes like… like the devil, or something.”

A few in the group looked over at Laurie, who slept peacefully in her tent. “He likes her the most,” Quentin commented quietly, wearily laying his head in Kate’s lap while the blonde stroked his hair gently. On Kate’s other shoulder was Ace, snoring softly and still wearing his sunglasses despite it being dark out. 

“She came with him, didn’t she?” Nea asked.

“Yeah. She said there were rumors spread in her town that they were siblings,” Quentin murmured.

“Well, are they?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Things are changin’,” Kate cut in, still lovingly stroking Quentin’s hair as he and Ace rested comfortably in her presence. “Y’all think that, if we keep this up, the Entity will do somethin’?”

“I think the Entity is weakening,” Quentin said, lowering his voice slightly. “I think… it’s stretched itself thin expanding this world to fit us all in… and now that we are fighting back, in our way, it can’t handle it. Hence killers roaming where they shouldn’t belong… maps converging… weird stuff happening. Like the red strings,” he finished, tired eyes shifting up to look at Kate.

The blonde grinned down at him. “Now here I thought you just liked me,” she said playfully.

“I do,” Quentin replied softly.

Kate’s cheeks warmed with a blush. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she responded, fingers running through his curly hair. “Smartest boy I ever met.”

“I don’t know about that,” the teen stammered, blushing. “I-I’m just… thinking out loud. I believe Jake was right when he said this was it: the collapse. I don’t think the Entity can take much more of this… and when it does all come crashing down, one of two things will happen: we’ll be free… or we’ll…”

“Die,” Nea finished in a whisper.

* * *

Meg had heard everything from her tent as she tried to sleep; and yet her mind would not quit whirling around in circles, replaying everything that had happened from start to finish. Everything had changed when he’d given her that drawing - but had it  _ really  _ happened before then? Was this predestined from the beginning?

She remembered what Evan had told her after he’d rescued her from Ormond, the look in his white eyes as he’d said it. That she was  _ important to him.  _ And yet…

The revelation of his murderous past still haunted her. He hadn’t been a good person before the Entity had taken him - quite the opposite. He’d been a  _ mass murderer.  _

But how he’d spoken of his father… Meg was certain she didn’t have every piece of the story, but it sounded like… like his father had deeply abused him. Probably hurt Evan just like he’d hurt the miners. And he’d grown up believing that was  _ love,  _ that the abuse was just him  _ being taught a lesson. _ It was a pathetically sad story, she realized, but could it really justify or explain killing over a hundred people?? 

And yet, even through all of these whirling thoughts, Meg found herself wanting to see him.  _ For answers,  _ she convinced herself; but even as she thought of his strong jaw and narrowed eyes, the angry white scar running down his regal face, she knew that wasn’t wholly true. 

And she hated herself for it.

Rolling over and forcing her eyes closed, she pushed back all desire to see Evan MacMillan and instead fell into a restless sleep.

  
  



	14. Break the Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! Sorry for the wait! I was on vacation for a bit, as well as working on bits and pieces of other stories as well. :D But I am BACK and will continue updating until this thing is finished! As always, thank you all for your patience and THANK YOU for reading!!

**_14\. Break the Walls_ **

**_[ Meeting 107; Springwood - Haddonfield. ]_ **

When Meg heard the  **_CLAP_ ** of a trap, she was filled with fear - not because she was afraid someone was dying, but because she couldn’t bear to look Evan in the face again. Not after what she’d learned. Not after what she’d said.

Going up the stairs in an abandoned house, the red-head first thought that she was in Haddonfield - but a glance out the window revealed the infamous Springwood elementary school in the distance… as well as ambulances… and police cars… and a street sign that said ‘Haddonfield.’ Grimly Meg surmised that this was another one of the ‘map convergences’ that had been happening lately; soon after, dread settled in her chest at the mere thought of facing the killer to which this map was assigned.  _ The Shape.  _ While most of the other killers had dissolved into chaos for varying reasons, Michael Myers (as Laurie had named him) had continued his murderous spree with single-minded focus and determination. He went into every trial intent on squeezing the life out of every living thing in sight; he was the one killer they truly still had to do their best around, lest they die a painful death. Sure, Evan was the killer for the trial, that had been established with the sound of the bear trap closing, but what if Michael showed up? What if the melding of the maps caused two killers to show? It wouldn’t be the first time -

\- and she dreaded to think what might happen if the Shape were to interfere.

As she worked on a generator, she tried to let the glow of crossing wires distract her, but her brain kept circling around  _ him.  _ Evan. What he’d done; his past.

He’d killed over a  _ hundred  _ people.

From what it sounded like, his father was mostly to blame for molding him into a monster - in fact, if Evan had a hobby like drawing, she surmised at one point he couldn’t have been all that bad - but his father had warped him. Trained him into a feral animal.

And he’d  _ killed a hundred people. _

The thought was too much to bear. Ashamed that she’d longed for the embrace of a man with such a cold, dead heart that he’d walked a group of people into a mine and murdered them with explosives. That she’d actually had…  _ feelings _ for a man like that.

Meg was disgusted with herself. For letting her attraction and curiosity blind her - for letting a few good deeds wipe away the fact that he was a  _ monster for a reason -  _ and she tried and failed to bite back the tears that brimmed the corners of her eyes.

With a sniffle she took a cursory glance around as she finished up the generator - and let out an ear-splitting scream.

Not far back, standing behind a tree, he watched her. Still and silent as the grave. 

_ The Shape. _

* * *

He stared down at the trap in his hand. He remembered the first time his father had taught him how to set a bear trap; how as a boy he’d messed up, got his hand caught, nearly tore his own fingers off. His father laughed as blood dripped from Evan’s mangled fingers; he could hear that laugh clearly, sharp and bitter and cold. 

It had served him right for not setting the trap correctly. He’d deserved to get his hand caught. It had been up to Evan after that to wrap up his own hand, tend to his own wounds, and he was still shocked that he hadn’t endured permanent damage or disfigurement. He supposed years of caring for himself had honed his medical skills - enough, at least, to spare his hand.

That same hand, marred only by angry white scars, turned over, long rough fingers flexing as the other hand bore the trap dutifully. He’d been born a hunter. It was in his blood. Why had he turned his back on his blood - and his  _ father -  _ for a girl?

_ Punish her,  _ his father growled in his ear.  _ Break her. She thinks you’re a monster… but she’s just a weak little  _ **_worm._ **

The Trapper stiffened, shoulders rigid with tension. Eventually he lifted the trap once more, staring at the cold, hard metal. He spent so long doing so that he could hear the completion of not one, but two generators.

Finally his feet moved, and the hulking man began aimlessly wandering about, noting the way the area seemed…  _ warped,  _ like two realms were merging together. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it would only get worse from here.

A dark-skinned girl froze up when she saw him approach, and the killer stopped several yards short of her, simply watching. She stared right back with wide eyes, shaking like a leaf; but she didn’t run. There was something in her eyes, mingling with the fear…  _ curiosity,  _ perhaps.

Not unlike the emotion initially reflected in Meg’s gaze.

He waited.

Eventually the girl moved a step closer, opening and closing her mouth repeatedly as if trying to find the right words. Finally she settled on, “how did it happen for you and Meg?”

His brows furrowed. He grunted questioningly. Clearing her throat, the girl amended, “t-the red string… h-how did it happen? What does it mean?”

He finally shrugged, unsure how to answer. Truthfully, there  _ was  _ no answer. The girl frowned, frustrated. “D-Does it mean you… love her?”

The Trapper visibly stiffened, working his jaw behind his mask in annoyance.  _ “No,”  _ he growled.

“W-well then, please help me understand!” The girl’s voice was genuine and pleading, with none of the belligerence Meg’s voice usually had. No, this girl was soft, even frail. She was a healer, not a scrapper. “I… I’m connected now. To… t-the Hillbilly. Uhm, M-Max,” she corrected.

“Then that… is all,” he replied in a rumble. “Just… connection.”

Her brows furrowed thoughtfully. “W-Well… then why does he stare at me? With this…  _ look…” _

Evan frowned beneath his mask. This wasn’t the type of conversation he thought he’d be having, and he didn’t want it to go on any longer. “I do not… know,” grunted, turning away to leave.

The girl piped up, giving him pause. “I-I never really saw Meg interact with you… but I’ll b-bet she looks at  _ you  _ that way, too…”

He clenched his teeth, hands tightening into fists. “She doesn’t,” he growled, leaving her standing there confused.

Feeling anger and frustration building in his chest, the killer marched off toward a hook and began taking his woes out on the contraption. He beat on it with his cleaver; when it was thoroughly mangled he grabbed at it and began pulling as hard as he could. Muscles tensed and strained as he ripped the metal from the ground, letting it collapse in a rusty heap. The hook was almost unrecognizable as he stared down at it, chest heaving with ragged breaths. 

Evan turned his face to the dark sky, feeling a roar of rage build in his lungs; but before he could release his emotions into the air, he heard a gut-wrenching scream from a building near the school. The killer’s body went rigid and he stooped to pick up his cleaver, every inch of his body on fire with adrenaline;  _ he knew that scream.  _

Meg was in trouble.

And though he was a monster… a  _ murderer…  _ and though she’d never love him, she’d never look at him with that twinkle in her eye, or give him that coy little smile, or reach up to touch his face, ever again… he couldn’t help himself. His urge, his  _ instinct,  _ was to  _ protect her.  _

He marched off to the house, gripping his cleaver tightly in his hand. If Meg was screaming like that… then that meant there was another killer here. The collapse really  _ was  _ upon them.

Seeing the tall, imposing figure in the distance with a knife raised, Evan let out a low, angry growl.  _ The Shape.  _ The only killer who was so silent, so demonic, so  _ frightening  _ that none of the others ever tried to bother him save for the Ghostface - who, granted, was  _ extremely  _ stupid. On the one or two chances that Evan had looked the Shape in the eye… he found  _ nothing  _ there. Not a damn thing.

And that  _ soulless husk  _ was currently dead-set on Meg. Evan growled again and took off after them, his long stride allowing him to easily catch up to them. The Shape didn’t even bother to glance back at him. He was too focused on his target. Reaching out, Evan grabbed the other by the back of his jumpsuit and yanked him back so hard that he stumbled and fell flat on his back; Meg, who’d been running, continued to do so until she jumped over a window and into the nearest house. He only spared a quick glance at her, relieved that she was safe for the moment, before turning his gaze back on the Shape.

The tall killer laid deathly still for a moment, before abruptly getting up and coming straight for Evan. He was silent, not saying a word or even conveying anger in his posture, but the kitchen knife was held in a deathly tight grip as he turned his hostility on the other killer. That was the moment Evan  _ truly  _ knew just how evil this creature was; he did not distinguish friend from foe, he did not care who he hurt, only  _ that  _ he hurt. To suffocate life was his only goal.

And the realization sent a small, unfamiliar trickle of fear into Evan’s chest. Though he still had about half a foot on the Shape, and was certainly much bulkier, the sheer single-minded determination and relentlessness of the other was intimidating. Evan side-stepped a swipe of the man’s knife, then another, then another - before countering with his cleaver. As the blade sunk into the Shape’s shoulder, blood quickly staining the simple blue jumpsuit he wore, the masked killer stopped for a moment and stared at the wound before slowly looking back up at Evan. 

Then plunging the blade right into his gut. Evan yanked himself away, rumbling lowly in pain while clutching his heavily bleeding wound and attempting to parry any more incoming blows. Evan’s weapon was bigger, and he was stronger, but the Shape felt no pain. He had no  _ soul.  _

The Trapper was outmatched in that regard.

As the Shape homed in on him, he felt that blade sink into his body - again. And again. And again. Though he got several good hits on the other killer, the Shape didn’t seem nearly as affected by his grievous wounds as Evan was. His vision suddenly blurred and he stumbled away as the other killer continued pressing in. Closer. Closer.

And suddenly there was a mighty little scream accompanied by a lithe body tackling the Shape so hard he was knocked clean off of his feet. The two bodies crashed to the ground, before the smaller one scrambled off in a panicked frenzy and approached Evan. In his blurry vision he could make out Meg’s face. Those intense blue-gray eyes. A lock of red hair curling messily under her chin. She was the sun peeking out from behind black clouds on a stormy day. 

He felt her take his hand firmly in her own, tugging him forward and away from the scene. Taking him toward safety.

* * *

As she watched from the window, utter fear in her eyes as Evan -  _ the Trapper,  _ she tried and failed to remind herself - faced off with the Shape. Though Evan was larger and taller and had the better weapon, Michael had a tenacity, fearlessness and drive that was inhuman and unmatched. 

And it was beginning to turn the tides of the battle. Evan, sporting quite a few stab wounds and bleeding inky blood onto the ground, took another swing at Michael and the blade found his shoulder - but that didn’t stop him stabbing again. And again.

Meg battled with herself on whether or not to run. She should have been getting the hell out of here - toward  _ safety -  _ but something kept her feet glued. Maybe it was the horror of watching such a soulless monster take one of the strongest killers down slowly and surely, or maybe it was sheer fear of Michael himself - she tried to convince herself that it  _ wasn’t  _ concern for Evan. She didn’t care about him anymore. She couldn’t. 

He was a  _ killer,  _ through and through.

But if that were true, why would he risk himself like this for her? After the things she’d said, after the way she’d looked at him? This was a repeat of their punishment from the Entity; Meg had run away, had pushed as hard as she could, and still he remained. Came to her aid. Protected her.

She had made the decision before awareness hit her and by the time Meg realized what she was doing, she’d vaulted out of the window, let out a war cry, and slammed her body right into Michael with enough force to bring him down. Running on sheer adrenaline and instinct, the red-head scrambled to her feet, reached for Evan, and began dragging him out of there. His steps were clumsy and atypically slow, and his free hand was holding his abdomen as if doing so would keep the blood from flowing. 

It didn’t.

And Meg hated that she was worried about it. Her brain screamed at her, trying to convince her that he deserved this torture, that he was nothing more than a heartless killer, that she should cut her losses and just go… but some part of her, she wasn’t sure which, whispered that there was more to him than met the eye. That maybe… just maybe, he was worth redeeming.

Evan was worth saving.

“Just… go,” she heard him grunt behind her as she strained to tug him forward. “Stay… safe.”

_ “Shut the hell up.”  _ Meg’s eyes flared with anger as she glanced back at him, still vehemently pulling on his arm. “Just  _ stop talking  _ and  _ start moving _ , you dumb turtle!”

He grunted again, looking backwards. The  Shape was nowhere to be seen; the spot he’d been laying in was empty. Meg felt fear shoot through her and she continued straining to help Evan along. At this point she hadn’t even noticed if the generators were powered or not: at the rate the world collapse was going, she wasn’t entirely sure if the generators were even relevant anymore. She wondered if the illusion was weak enough that they could… just bust out.

A ludicrous idea, but with the way things were going; it was sounding more and more reasonable.

Seeing a dirty pink shirt up ahead, Meg’s pace quickened.  _ “Claudette!” _ she called out, feeling relief flood her when the other girl came to their rescue. Claudette was so short that hauling Evan’s other arm over her shoulders really didn’t do much to hold him up, but with the two working together, they were able to get him over to a gate. 

“It’s Michael, isn’t it…?” Claudette asked, voice shaking. “Meg - the generators are almost done… Dwight and Jane were working on the last one, but…”

Meg’s lips curled into a grim frown. “They’ll finish it. Even if Dwight scares easily, I know they’ll get it done.  _ We  _ need to find a gate.”

“B-But we can’t take the Trapper -“

_ “Evan.” _ Meg’s voice was firm and left no room for argument, surprising everyone - including herself. Her voice went quiet. “His name is… Evan.”

Claudette paused, trembling in fear. Finally: “Meg… we can’t take him with us. The Entity won’t let him through the -“

“Then I will find another way.”

Evan grunted from between them.  _ “No.”  _ His voice was ragged. “Leave. I will… be fine.”

Meg’s temper flared and she glared up at him. “I’m  _ not -“ _

_ “Leave.” _

She could see the look in those milky white eyes even behind his mask, and Meg hesitated. The two were suddenly locked in a battle of wills as Claudette stood by, spectating helplessly. Finally the last generator powered on and Meg felt a rush of adrenaline, speeding her along. There was still no sign of the Shape, still no screams sounding from across the map - and rather than being comforted by that knowledge, Meg was even more concerned. Letting go of Evan, she rushed over to the gate and pulled down on the lever, starting up the power.

* * *

While Meg sprinted forward to get the gate open, Evan waited silently, trying not to put his full weight on Claudette. The frail girl was much too small to support him fully, and besides, he didn’t like leaning on others, anyways. He’d spent his whole life taking care of himself and wasn’t about to change that now, even if he was bleeding out. 

Though his vision was spotty, he switched between watching Meg and scanning their surroundings, making sure the silent masked killer was nowhere in sight. Because if he did show up again… Evan wasn’t sure he’d be able to protect the survivors. His father gnawed at his brain, telling him that protecting those girls wasn’t his job -  _ killing  _ them was - that they were  _ weakness,  _ maggots that needed to be put out of their misery.

He shook the thought away, noticing that the dark-skinned girl was staring up at him. He glanced down at her, scowling behind his mask as he tried to focus on breathing properly. “... What?” he finally grunted breathlessly.

Her expression was an enigma. He couldn’t seem to read her emotions. Finally, the girl murmured, “s-she  _ does  _ look at you that way.”

Evan felt a pang in his chest. His first thought was that the girl was a damned liar. Meg couldn’t look at him that way - because she thought he was a heartless monster. A murderer.

_ And he was. _

Rather than answer her, the killer merely looked away and growled lowly in his chest; a warning to leave things along. And the girl did. The loud alarm sounded as the gate finished powering up, and the moment they moved forward, Evan felt the bite of a blade in the back of his shoulder. He let out a groan and shoved Claudette forward, toward the opening doors. And Meg - that brave,  _ stupid girl - _ didn’t run for the gate.

She ran for  _ him. _

_ “GO,”  _ he growled in warning as the Shape dug his kitchen knife into him once more. Meg, of course, didn’t listen.  _ “Little Rabbit - GO.”  _ Grabbing her, he shoved her as hard as he could in the direction of the gate before spinning around and using all of the strength he had left to pick the Shape up clean off the ground, throwing him as hard as his screaming muscles would allow. The masked killer’s back slammed into a tree and he slumped against it, briefly stunned.

When he turned back toward the gate Meg was scrambling to her feet - and again, instead of leaving like the other girl had been smart enough to do, she was racing for him, reaching out to grab his hand firmly.

And the moment she did, the entire realm flipped upside down and they were falling.

Falling into vast, open sky.


	15. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So lemme just start out by saying sorry this took longer than my normal timespan! I still had a lot of fun with this chapter and I think there are still a few more to go before the 'end' of the story. That being said - I'm going to be putting out another anthology! The next one will be titled 'Crimson Strings,' and each chapter will be focused on particular people who've had red strings connecting them. There may be more than one chapter dedicated to certain folks, I haven't decided yet, but all of the ones mentioned here will be included! It's sort of a 'behind the scenes' type thing - how others deal with what's happening, since this story focuses on Meg and Evan. If you liked this story, please keep on the look out for it! 
> 
> And don't worry, there will still be some MegMillan in it. ;]
> 
> Final thing - again, I have no beta readers so my apologies for any mistakes in grammar, spelling, or continuity. Thank you all for your patience, and AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU FOR READING! <3

**_15\. Revelations_ **

**_[ Meeting 107-2; Unknown. ]_ **

When Meg landed on the ground with a thud, her back screamed in agony and her legs were tingling painfully with the impact. She heard a groan not too far away and managed to lift her head enough to see Evan’s body near her own - and… something red. A lot of red. Her vision blurred and she lowered her head back to the dirt, closing her eyes. Where the hell were they? Where were Dwight and Jane? Michael?

Finally she seemed to regain her balance enough to slowly lift herself off the ground, sitting up and feeling her whole body protest the movement. When she focused on her surroundings her eyes widened in awe and a gasp left her.

All around them were ghostly images of all their companions in the Fog - both survivors and killers. And almost every single one of them had red strings connecting them in some way - a few of them, she noticed had multiple. Some that Meg hadn’t even seen up until now. Momentarily forgetting about Evan and their current predicament, Meg’s eyes attempted to follow all the red strings, connecting everyone to each other. There were quite a few she hadn’t noticed before - not only was Kate connected to Quentin… she was connected to Ace as well. Jake was connected to… to that girl. Susie. And although the Wraith was connected to the Nurse… he had somehow been connected to  _ Nea  _ as well.

Although Nea didn’t talk too much around the campfire, preferring to be alone for the most part, Meg had remembered her commenting more than once about how she had this sort of…  _ game  _ with the Wraith. Nea was known for being extremely slippery and hard to catch, and Wraith seemed to be one of the only killers who could ever give her a good run. In fact, Meg remembered more than one match being extremely easy because the bell-ringing killer had given up on the other survivors to focus on chasing Nea. 

This world - the Fog - and the people in it… were much more connected than she’d ever imagined. Meg noted even more strings popping up - between the Pig and the Ghostface, as well as the Cannibal; between Jane and the Plague… between Laurie and her killer - Michael. Even Cheryl had been oddly connected to her killer; the Pyramid Head, he’d been called. He had been terrifying to face off against. 

The only figure in the entirety of the Fog that Meg saw no strings attached to was the Clown. Bile immediately rose in the back of her throat at the sight of him; he was by far the most vile and perverse of all the killers in the realm, and with disgust she admitted that the lack of connections wasn’t surprising in the slightest. 

A groan drew her attention from all the ghostly figures and Meg looked over at Evan as he stirred, slowly picking himself up off the ground. It was then that she noticed the red string between them - and no one else. Meg had no other connections… and neither did Evan. And the string between them was bright; brighter than any of the others.

It had been the first.

Meg drew her knees to her chest, watching him apprehensively as he came to and analyzed his surroundings. He took a minute to look at all the figures around them, before finally focusing his attention on her. The pair locked eyes and stared at one another silently for what seemed like forever. Finally she blurted, “how come I couldn’t see the string, and you could?”

He hesitated. “I… don’t know.”

“Why are we here??  _ Where  _ **_is_ ** _ here?” _

“I don’t know.”

“WHY are we connected??”

“I don’t know.”

Meg’s voice rose to a yell. “WHY did you kill all those people?!”

Evan’s shoulders went stiff, his whole body rigid as he sat on his knees, watching her. He fell utterly silent, other than the rough bear-like sounds of his breathing. Meg felt tears coming unbidden, stinging the corners of her eyes and forcing her to blink them back; she wasn’t sure where the last question had come from, but it had been lingering in the back of her mind ever since his revelation. And she couldn’t stop thinking about it. About  _ him.  _ And Meg was still shocked by the conflicting feelings still mingling in her chest. She should hate him. She should  _ despise  _ him for the horrible things he’d done, and yet - if she said she didn’t care about Evan… she’d be lying to herself.

The thought that she could care for a vicious, brutal murderer made her feel sick to her stomach.

Still, she needed answers, and despite the oddity of their surroundings, all those ghostly figures staring at them, Meg found herself digging her heels in and demanding those answers with a hard stare. Finally Evan’s shoulders slumped and he averted his gaze, masked face turning away. He either wouldn’t look at her or  _ couldn’t  _ look at her. “I did it… because I am… a monster,” he rumbled quietly.

“BULLSHIT!” Meg’s raised voice surprised even herself. Still, she pressed on. “A heartless monster wouldn’t save my friends. A monster wouldn’t save  _ me.  _ A monster wouldn’t nearly KILL himself trying to keep me out of danger! So what is your game, you dumb turtle?! Do you love me or something?! Is that why this… damn  _ string  _ is here?!”

The hulking man tensed up once more and his head abruptly jerked to stare at her, intensity in his white eyes behind his mask. His jaw worked, clenching angrily, before he ground out:  **_“no.”_ **

Meg faltered, falling silent. A new lump formed in her throat and she swallowed it down, feeling the familiar burn of threatening tears.

* * *

He watched with growing regret, unable to look away, as the red-head went quiet and fought back tears. “I-I see,” she said, voice oddly quiet and trembling with emotion. “So that’s it, then.” Every passing second made him want to hit himself. To punish himself for saying or doing anything to possibly hurt her. 

But how could he tell her the truth? About his feelings - which he wasn’t even sure what they were - or about his past? It was easier, so much easier, to pretend he didn’t care and to leave the past packed away. It was easier to dismiss it all and label himself a monster. Being a monster was simple. Painless. You hurt, you maim, you kill, you put the maggots in their place. 

Evan wasn’t sure he was ready to put down the mask. He wasn’t sure he was  _ able  _ to.

He merely watched her, desperately wanting to look away. To avoid the pangs that burned his chest at the sight of her tears. “I can’t possibly believe that you killed all those people just because you  _ wanted  _ to,” she protested, voice weak - almost like she wasn’t so sure herself anymore. So weak. So pathetic. So heart-wrenching. “Please. Tell me the truth, Evan.”

With that, she crawled over to him. The ghostly silhouettes all around them watched, silent as the grave, as Meg stopped right in front of him, sitting on her knees, and reached up to pull his mask up and away. Hard white eyes looked down at her, lips pursed so tightly that they stretched the angry white scar that trailed all the way across his tanned face. “P-Please - you… you dumb turtle,” the red-head practically whimpered, those tiny ineffectual little hands come up to rest on his cheeks. The touch lit Evan on fire and he fought with himself, unsure whether he wanted to pull her closer or wrench himself away. Her insults held no threat anymore - as if they ever did - in fact, they had become an almost affectionate nickname. 

Meg loomed ever closer, tears staining her cheeks as those pretty blue-gray eyes searched his own for something. Perhaps his true feelings? Something other than the lies he’d been giving her? His gaze wandered over her face down to her lips. Those soft, delectable little lips that had given him the utter pleasure of wrapping around his own finger at one point. Lips that had screamed at him, lips that had gasped and moaned so deliciously, lips that trembled when she gazed at him. Lips he’d never felt the pleasure of kissing - lips he  _ didn’t deserve  _ to kiss. 

“You  _ stupid girl,”  _ he growled, abruptly pulling away from her and struggling to his feet. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but were still painful - the Entity’s doing, no doubt. Immediately Evan looked away, unable to look Meg in the eye. “We don’t have… time for this. We need to… figure out how to…  _ get out.” _

He didn’t see her expression but he could hear her voice - cold steel. “Alright.” In his peripherals he could see her get slowly to her feet. “What are you talking about? Get out of…  _ here?”  _ She sounded deeply wounded; angered. He couldn’t blame her. “I don’t see a way off this ghostly little rock, do you? Got any bright ideas, you dumb turtle??”

“I meant…  _ out.” _

When he finally looked at her, he saw her staring at him with wide eyes. “You mean…?”

He nodded, grunting. “I think… the Entity, it’s… weakening.”

Meg pursed her lips. “How am I supposed to believe anything you say??”

“You don’t… have to,” he rasped. “Look around. The… collapse.”

She looked away. Evan found himself wondering why he was so concerned with getting out; then he realized it wasn’t himself he was concerned with. It was  _ her. _

Always her.

“If we… work together - we can… break it. And maybe we’ll… get out. We have to… work together.”

“Work together?” Her brows scrunched and she looked at him with utter spite in her blue-gray eyes. Spite that shielded the hurt. “I’m just a  _ stupid girl,  _ remember?”

He growled. “Now isn’t… the time.”

“And it never will be, I guess.” Meg’s lower lip trembled. “Answer me one thing, then - if you don’t care for me - then why does this stupid red string connect us?!”

Evan tensed up. That really was the question, wasn’t it? He tried to convince himself he didn’t care - that his reason for protecting Meg was sheer rebellion. He had become so tired of all this that he had instinctively searched for some way - any way - to show his displeasure. To hurt the Entity as it had hurt him. That Meg was simply convenient.

But that didn’t explain the red string. He knew what that line of thought really was - an  _ excuse.  _

Because deep down, though he tried to deny or snuff it out, Meg was important to him. His voice was quiet; pensive. “Because you… are the  _ Little Rabbit.  _ And I… am the  _ dumb turtle.” _

Understanding flowed between them. In that moment, surrounded by the ghostly visages of their friends and enemies, Evan and Meg connected.  _ Truly _ connected. Though their feelings had gone unspoken, and maybe always would, they had an  _ understanding. _

Then Meg went still, wrinkling her nose in an attempt to force back the tears he could see threatening the corners of her eyes. “I-I guess that’s true,” she conceded with a sniffle. “Well… Do you have a plan,  _ dumb turtle?” _

Evan worked his jaw behind his mask, thinking. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the ground began to tremble violently, knocking the pair off their feet. Just as they struggled to stand, Evan instinctively reaching for the red-head to protect her from any impact, the world was once more flipped upside down. 

* * *

When Meg landed, wind whistling in her ears and blocking out all noise, she felt a heavy  **_thud_ ** beside her - she knew it was Evan. Her first thought was pain. Her second was concern - concern for Evan, despite the multitude of reasons she shouldn’t care. Squinting, the red-head tried to focus her vision and began to sit up with a groan; why was it so damn  _ bright? _

As her vision cleared and she rubbed her head, Meg realized, looking at all the faces of her horrified friends, who had all scurried from their seats and stayed a good distance back, that she was at the  _ campfire. _

_ And Evan was with her. _

No killer had ever broached the small space the survivors lived in; it was their sanctuary, their one brief reprieve from the torture of the trials. The only place they had where a killer could not hurt them.

And Evan was here, right in the middle of it. Had the Entity purposely taken him here? Or was this… the Entity  _ weakening,  _ like Evan had said??

Claudette broke the wide circle of survivors to move over to Meg cautiously, putting the red-head between her and the killer’s body. It seemed that no matter what was currently going on, that fear of killers was now so instinctual that it would take more than a few good deeds to ease the terror. No one else moved or said a word; Claudette simply took out of some her ointment and began dabbing it on the various cuts and scrapes littering her friend’s legs. “Don’t worry about me,” Meg protested softly, shifting away. “Worry about him.”

Claudette looked up from her work, her brows furrowing. “You’re our friend, Meg…” she replied equally softly. “He’s not. H-He’s not even supposed to be here…”

“But he is,” the red-head retorted, shifting onto her knees and crawling over to the man’s massive body. As she reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder, the others all stared. While the red strings of fate had been popping up all over the place, connecting survivors and killers alike, no one had gone nearly as far as Meg had. Some survivors looked at her with shock, others mild interest, and some with outright disgust. 

“It’s a bloody trick!” David suddenly protested as Meg’s hand met the killer’s tanned skin; he started to move forward but Jake held out an arm, shaking his head. David only seemed to half heed the other boy’s silent warning; with a scowl, he said, “the twat is a bloody  _ killer.  _ We can’t trust ‘im far as we can fuckin’ throw ‘im!”

Meg’s breath hitched and she shifted her eyes from the unconscious man on the ground to her friend. David had always been a dark horse, one of the few survivors - maybe the  _ only  _ one - who actually seemed to  _ enjoy  _ the trials on occasion. But his hatred and distrust for the killers ran deep, as to be expected, and David had always been a damn stubborn mule regardless. Meg knew changing his mind about any of them would be nigh impossible. Blue-gray eyes shifted down to look at the brute of a man. In the fall, one of the strings holding his mask together had snapped and it was hanging loosely on his face, threatening to come off at any moment. Shifting him gently, the red-head wiggled the mask off and set it aside.

Her hand went up to touch his face - and just before her fingers met his skin, a voice interrupted her. “The red string,” Kate murmured. “Sweet Jesus - it’s glowing.”

Meg looked down and could see that her blonde friend was right. The string connecting Evan and herself was glowing, almost pulsing with life; and she wondered what it meant, if anything at all. Evan had simply said they were connected. Nothing more, nothing less; but Meg couldn’t quite grasp that. It  _ had  _ to mean something more. Did it mean they were meant to be…  _ together? _

The thought was startling and Meg finally drew her hand back, having some semblance of self-control, especially in the presence of the others. Instead she nudged Evan’s shoulders, trying to stir him. “Evan?” she muttered, leaning over him. “Please - wake up.”

But he didn’t.

A quick check to his pulse filled Meg with a surprise sense of relief; she could see his breaths and feel his heartbeat, but his eyes remained closed. A presence startled her; it was Kate, who’d come over to crouch next to her. “Is that his  _ face?”  _ the songbird question, blue eyes roaming the killer’s visage with surprise. “Why - he looks almost…  _ normal.” _

Meg nodded quietly.  _ “Handsome,  _ even -” Kate continued, earning a displeased grunt from Ace. “Or - like he  _ could  _ have been handsome in his previous life… poor soul. I bet my left foot he doesn’t even wanna be here.”

Meg looked up at her friend with a soft expression. Kate had always been one of the most open-minded, free-spirited people she’d ever known - so of course it was the sultry blonde who seemed to accept things first. Resting Evan on his back (with some effort - because holy hell he was heavy), Meg replaced the mask tenderly and got up, beginning to explain everything she’d seen to all the others - who still hadn’t come much closer, considering there was an unconscious killer in the middle of the campfire site. A mixture of increasing horror and hope dawned on the group the more Meg talked about what she’d seen, what Evan had told her, and her own theories on the matter - the mere possibility of escaping this nightmare realm was enough to put a fire in the bellies of many of them.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Nea growled, clenching her hands into fists. “Let’s burn this damn place to the ground. If the Entity is really as weak as the meat-head on the ground there says… then let’s finish the damn thing off and get out of here!”

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy,” Adam cut in. “It may be weakening, but it’s still the Entity… it’s still in control of this place. That control is slowly being relinquished, the evidence being the merging of realms and the multiple killers roaming around - as well as the Trapper here landing right in our camp site -”

“Evan,” Meg interrupted. All eyes turned to her. The stares would have been enough to make anyone else blush in shame, but Meg only met their gazes with determination. “His name is Evan.”

“Well fockin’ forgive us if we don’t feel like callin’ a bloody  _ killer  _ by his  _ name,”  _ David spat, lip curling beneath his mustache. “You may have a lady-boner for that sonuvabitch, but the rest of us are thinkin’ with our bloody fuckin’  _ brains,  _ Red.”

Meg’s jaw tightened. A small part of her wanted to come to Evan’s defense, considering he’d saved not only her but a few of the others as well, but she knew it’d do no good. The prejudices ran deep, deeper than a few good deeds could fix. And she couldn’t blame David or anyone else. Evan had slaughtered them multiple times; she couldn’t expect them to simply forgive and forget. She hadn’t entirely done so, either - but while she knew he’d done horrible - even unforgivable things - she had also seen that look in his eye… the way he watched her. The shame in his posture when he’d told her. The regret in those milky white eyes. Eyes she had imagined, on more than one occasion, as a dark forest green color, just as he’d described. Deep green eyes that stared down at her as his fingers brushed her hair behind her ear. 

Jake of all people came to her rescue yet again. “Some of these killers may feel just as stuck here as we do,” he said, a gloved hand rubbing his chin. “It’s a long shot - and I don’t like the idea any more than anyone else - but perhaps we can temporarily work with the ones who are willing - just to get out of here. Then we can split ways and we’ll never have to look at any of them ever again.”

“You’re only entertaining the idea because you’ve been talking to that Legion girl,” Jane retorted, hands on her hips. “Have you forgotten that she’s killed just as many of us as the Trapper here? Or the Plague? Or the Clown?”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “She’s not the reason I’m considering this,” he replied tightly. “I’m considering it because I want to  _ leave this place.” _

“Whether or not we work with killers, I believe we should make some sort of plan based on what we’ve learned,” Adam chipped in. “If the Entity is weakening… then I say we keep doing that. And eventually… hopefully… we’ll land back in the real world.”

“B-But  _ how?”  _ Dwight, who’d been standing behind David and clutching at his sleeve, poked his head over the burly man’s shoulder. “We don’t even really know what’s been working and what’s not!”

Meg pursed her lips thoughtfully. “My best guess…?  _ The trials.”  _ Blue-gray eyes went down to watch Evan’s chest rise and fall slowly as she mulled over her thoughts. “The trials are where the Entity sets us in a realm with the killer and lets us all out to play, so to speak. Otherwise, killers aren’t allowed here at the campfire - and I guess it assumed we survivors would never go seek out any of the killers in their realms. Not until that day I stumbled upon the MacMillan Estate…”

“... Wait, what?” 

Quentin’s voice broke Meg from her thoughts and when she looked up, she found that the others were all staring at her in shock. Meg’s face  _ did  _ flush this time; she’d forgotten that she hadn’t told any of them about her meetings with Evan… or the sketch that sat in her tent, protected and untouched. All the survivors knew about was the time Jake and Evan had rescued her from Ormond - but they had all assumed that was possible because things were already tipping sideways by that point. Quentin stepped forward, looking a little braver than before. “You went to MacMillan Estate - outside a trial?  _ Before _ everything went to hell? I wasn’t even sure that was possible until that day at Ormond - not that I’ve ever truly  _ wanted _ to find out…”

Kate, who’d stood to her feet by now, moved over to the boy, their shoulders brushing. Meg’s eyes briefly flitted over to Ace, whose sunglasses were glinting in the fire light. She couldn’t gauge his expression or if he was watching them, but he couldn’t be happy about the arrangement. Kate, Quentin and Ace weren’t the only triangle of red strings that had formed, but they certainly were the most confusing one. “None of us have, sugar,” Kate replied quietly, gaze switching to Meg. “So how on God’s green earth did it happen?”

“I was running,” Meg began hesitantly. The others nodded in understanding. This was the norm for the red-head, although until that point she’d never ventured out of the woods surrounding the survivors’ campfire. “And I guess I just… ran too far. And you know how curious I can be -”

“ _ Stupid’s  _ more like it,” David grumbled.

“Listen here,  _ beardo,”  _ Meg snapped, “plenty of us would say your desperate desire to  _ brawl with the killers  _ is pretty damn  _ stupid,  _ too.” David gave her a nasty look but Meg was allowed to continue her story. She spoke about how she’d gotten stuck in that room with him, all the drawings she’d seen - how he’d seemed so tired. Unwilling to even tell her to leave. All he’d done was give her that charcoal sketch - and quickly Meg went over to her tent, carefully grabbing the brittle paper and bringing it out. Some survivors stayed near the edges of the tents, unwilling to go near Evan’s body; others moved in a little closer, curious.

“He can draw??” Nea muttered incredulously, staring at Meg’s likeness on the parchment. 

“And very well, too, from the looks of it,” Jeff responded quietly, a hint of admiration in his voice. “Who would’ve thought…”

“D-Do you think maybe… you coming across MacMillan estate… do you think that started all of this?” Cheryl asked, running a single finger over the drawing. The blonde girl had always been shy, but ever since a red string formed between the Pyramid Head and herself, she’d been even more withdrawn. As if trying to come to terms with what was happening. Cheryl (Heather as she liked to be called sometimes) seemed to be one of the only survivors that didn’t care to go back. From what little she’d told the group, she (and her killer) came from a place that was even more horrifying than the Fog; and if the Midwich school they sometimes had trials in was any example, Meg could see why she didn’t want to go back.

“I don’t know,” Meg mumbled. “Maybe. I remember Evan saying… that he’d always seen the red string between us. I hadn’t seen it until recently… but he could. From the very beginning.”

“What do the red strings mean??” Quentin asked, his hands clutching together anxiously. Like Meg, he was a curious person, though much more cautious than his red-head friend. He preferred to safely do research rather than investigate himself. But the red string phenomenon had everyone confused. No one knew why they’d popped up, or what they meant; they had guesses, theories, but nothing more. “If the Trapper could -” he paused, gaze moving over to the still man. The teen shuddered, quickly looking away; Meg could see him tense up beside Kate as he remembered the viciousness with which the killer had brutalized him. Meg hadn’t realized it then, but now she could guess that the reason Evan had punished him so horribly was…  _ jealousy.  _ She remembered with a shiver how he’d shoved Quentin’s head down into that trap… how the teeth had bitten into his skin… the terrible squelch of his skin ripping. It had been cruel; cruelty born of jealousy. Selfish, childish jealousy.

Kate squeezed Quentin’s shoulder gently. His voice trembled, but he continued: “i-if he was able to see the string from the beginning… then that could possibly change the dynamic. I’ve done a lot of research in my previous life on these kinds of things - it’s nothing more than a legend of sorts, but a lot of stories talk about the ‘red string of fate.’ When it connects two people, it means that fate has bound them together in some way; though it’s up to the connected people to figure out  _ how.  _ I guess what I’m saying is… it really  _ is  _ up to  _ us  _ to decide what to make of this.”

Meg took the sketch back to her tent, safely tucking it away and racking her brain for ideas. The trials. It all revolved around the trials.  _ Right…?  _ Or - as Cheryl had questioned - had it all started when she approached Evan…?

“Who’s in a trial right now?” she asked as she came back to the group, attempting to gather her thoughts and form a plan.

“Bill, Ash, Steve, and Nancy.” Jane counted the names off on her fingers. “They’ve been gone a while. Must be a tough one…”

“I thought I missed the smell of clove cigarettes,” Meg muttered, rubbing her head. “Well - for now, let’s just try everything we can. Maybe the best way to show resistance is to just…  _ not participate.  _ The killers have been all out of whack lately too - maybe, just maybe, some of them  _ will  _ help us.”

There were many mutterings; some of agreement, some of reluctance. Eventually the survivors dispersed - when Bill, Ash, Nancy, and Steve came back, they were tended to with utmost care and the situation was explained as soon as they arrived. Though none of them were enthused about having the body of a killer in their sanctuary, they eventually just retreated to their tents and left well enough alone. Meg sat down quietly next to Evan, who still breathed deeply, slowly. This time, however, she noticed that his sounds seemed a little less like a bear… and just a little more like a man.

Resting a hand on his chest, feeling his strong heartbeat beneath her palm, the red-head stared at the fire and mulled over everything that had been said and the decisions that had been made. The presence of another disturbed her from her thoughts and she looked up to see Claudette sitting down beside her, looking extremely nervous; at first Meg assumed that she was afraid to sit so close to Evan, but she quickly realized the dark-skinned woman was anxious about what she was about to say. The way she twiddled her fingers and opened her mouth like a fish out of water only to be unable to manage a squeak was proof enough. Meg’s brows furrowed. “Well, spit it out,” she pressed, not unkindly.

“I-I had an idea,” Claudette stammered, breath coming in short gasps, “b-but it’s… i-it’s  _ insane.  _ I thought maybe the only person who’d be open to c-considering it would be… y-you.”

“Thanks,” the red-head grumbled, unable to fault her friend for her thought process. “Well… what’s the idea?”

“C-Could you… could you t-take me to Coldwind…?” Claudette’s eyes averted, fear in her voice. 

Meg frowned. “Coldwind? Why?”

“I-I wanted to see i-if maybe…” the dark-skinned woman gulped. “I-if maybe… The Hillbilly - er, Max - w-would… help us.”


	16. The Faithful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there are any grammatical, spelling or continuity mistakes! As always- thank you all for reading!!! <3

**_16\. The Faithful_ **

**_[ Meeting 21; Crotus Prenn Asylum. ]_ **

  
  


Archie MacMillan’s silhouette could be seen outside, using a cleaver to practically rip apart the bloodied body of a bear whose foot had been caught in a trap. Was it going to be used for meat? No. Was the fur going to be used for clothing? No.

The bear was nothing more than a game.

A 15 year-old Evan watched from the window, both interested and repulsed. Hands, already dirtied and calloused from working in the mines and hunting, gripped the windowsill. When would enough be enough? When his father’s arm was tired, or when the bear was nothing more than a pile of mushy viscera? Why was the human still standing, and not the bear, who outweighed him by double? Why the human, and not the animal who had vicious teeth and claws with which to maul him? 

The answer, his father had said, was strength. Not just strength of body - but strength of  _ mind. Strength of will.  _ The bear lost because he wasn’t smart enough to see the gleaming trap waiting for him; wasn’t smart enough to disarm the human or plan a sneak attack. The bear simply followed instinct, and it had gotten him killed. For some reason Evan’s mind went to his mother; the soft, kind, gentle woman who’d called him her ‘little bear.’ Even as a child he’d been built sturdier than others his age. Clever woman.

Frail woman.

_ Worthless wretch. _

The Trapper startled himself out of his thoughts, and everything disappeared - the woods, the warm evening sky, the image of his father covered head to toe in animal blood. Any blood. 

It was a memory; nothing more than a memory. 

Splayed before him was the very estate he’d grown up in - a hollow, haunted replica of it. He roamed these grounds alone in perpetual night, forever doomed to hear the voice of his father and relive every moment that made him into the monster he was. He hadn’t been here long and already he was beginning to grow tired of the games. Some moments - he even wished he could leave. 

And other moments, his father whispered over his shoulder:  _ kill. Kill. Kill. Show them your strength. Put those worms out of their misery. _

A voice dissipated his father’s murderous mutterings and the brawny man shifted to see a figure emerging from the foliage that encroached the estate. “Ergh - these damn thorns are ripping my pants all to shreds,” the voice complained.

The Trapper scowled beneath his mask at the sight of the Ghostface making funny steps over to him all while picking thorns out of his clothing. “Ow! Ow! Ow! Jeez, these things are two seconds away from obliterating my nutsack.” Once he finally seemed content, he patted his black cloak down gingerly and leaned on a tree, fixing the Trapper with a stare. “Never been here outside of a trial,” the killer mused. “I’d say it’s nice, but to be honest it’s a fucking dump.”

_ “What do you want?”  _ the Trapper growled, hands tightening into fists. His cleaver had been left somewhere inside the main building, but he didn’t need it to pummel this little quim if needed.

“Can’t a guy just look around? I don’t have a nice, cozy home all to myself, after all,” Ghostface replied quaintly. “I already visited Kenny boy and he wasn’t all too pleased to share either. I convinced him to be nice, though.”

_ “And how did you do that?” _

“Just let him know the many many merits of being my ally,” Ghostface said with a shrug. “Danny Johnson, at your cervix, hehe - or Jed Olsen, if you prefer. Or just good ol’ Ghostie.”

_ “Too many names,”  _ the Trapper hissed.  _ “Settle on one. It’s less forgettable.” _

Danny stared at him silently for a moment. Finally, he took in a breath, voice seemingly nonchalant. “You seem like a bloodthirsty guy - setting those little traps and all. You ever think of what it’s gonna be like when we get out of here?? In the Fog, we get to  _ play -  _ to do the stabby stabby thing all we want to. No police, no jail, no resisting arrest, no  _ consequences.  _ For us  _ warmongers -  _ well, this is the best thing we could ask for, right? So the question is… What’re you gonna do back on the outside?”

The Trapper’s brows furrowed and his jaw clenched in annoyance. For such a little pest, he was bringing up a lot of things he’d rather not think about.  _ “... What makes you think we’ll ever get out?” _

“Oh come now, Sir MacMillan.” The masked killer tilted his head, staring up at the other. “You really think that spidery thing that dragged us here can  _ keep  _ us here?  _ Forever?  _ I thought there was something other than coal in that brain of yours - but maybe I was wrong…” At the Trapper’s silence, Danny went on. “Let me put it to ya this way. The Entity may be a deity - a god - or just some magical being - but it’s not omnipotent. Eventually… it’ll run outta steam. And when it does, my man - we killers? We’re  _ royally fucked.” _

_ “You make two mistakes,”  _ the Trapper growled, advancing on the lithe killer.  _ “One - insulting my intelligence. And two - assuming that every killer in the Fog wants to be here. That all of them enjoy killing as much as you.” _

Danny didn’t back up; he stood his ground, merely tilting his head back to peer up at the much taller killer. “Perhaps,” he said, a lilt to his voice. “Maybe some of them don’t. The Wraith I can see - what a sad, sad boy. Never liked to get his hands dirty despite his aptitude for the hunt… but  _ you.”  _ The sudden change in tone was sinister enough to give the Trapper a brief pause. Not afraid; unsettled. 

“That’s the reason I’m convinced you’ll see my side of things. The bloodhound may not like the blood on his hands. But  _ you,  _ Trapper… you  _ do  _ like it.”

The hulking killer tensed up, broad shoulders rigid. The war constantly waging inside his mind resumed in full fury; like all the tales the other miners had told about having an angel on one shoulder, the devil on the other. The horned little creature whispered death in his ear and, unable to let go of the love he’d once felt, the Trapper listened. 

The devil was Archie MacMillan.

He finally rumbled; a sound that spoke reluctant agreement. That angel on the other shoulder, all tired and tattered and withered like a flower in winter, hung it’s head, murmuring quietly that  _ no, he didn’t want to kill. He was tired of it. _

_ So, so tired. _

Milky white eyes stared down at the other killer; Danny straightened his posture, a finger rubbing at his mask. The Trapper didn’t need to see his face to know he was growing infuriatingly smug. “Yes, that’s what I thought. I had a feelin’ you’d see things my way! Now - when the time comes and the Entity starts to lose its control, what are we gonna do?”

_ “Considering I know nothing about the Entity, nor have I ever pondered leaving this place, I hadn’t exactly thought of a plan,”  _ the Trapper growled, increasingly irritated.  _ “I don’t care about the little tricks you have up your sleeve, you annoyance. I hunt. That is what I do. So  _ **_leave,_ ** _ before I start hunting  _ **_you.”_ **

“No matter your grievances with little ol’ me, you’ve gotta admit that the idea of gettin’ outta here, going back to the real world… it doesn’t exactly sound peachy.” Danny insisted, before tapping the chin of his mask thoughtfully. “Ya know what - leave all the sordid details to me. When the time comes, Trapper boy, can I count on you??”

The Trapper’s jaw worked behind his mask, considering his words and wondering if simply agreeing would make the pest leave faster. Finally, he gave a stiff nod, and that seemed enough to satiate the persistent man - for the moment, at least. He disappeared into the woods, humming a jaunty tune,

The Trapper didn’t have long to ponder the strange and aggravating encounter before he was gratefully ripped from the haunted, quiet grounds of the MacMillan Estate and thrown into a trial. When his feet hit the ground, his cleaver dropping from the sky beside him, the hulking killer gathered his bearings quickly. Snatching the cleaver from the grass and stooping over a nearby trap, he carefully repositioned it under a pallet; as he worked, the man’s milky white eyes hardened in concentration and dirty fingers worked deftly to pry it open and set it. His movements were rhythmic and ritualistic; this was his job. His trade. 

This was what he was  _ good  _ at.

For the next several minutes, the beast of a man continued walking the map, which he’d recognized as the old asylum, setting traps in strategic places. By the time he finished, the survivors had gotten a generator finished, but that was alright. Now that he had set up, it wouldn’t take long at all for the match to turn in his favor.

And just as he’d thought, the sound of a  **_CLAP_ ** followed by a scream reached his ears. With single-minded determination the Trapper pursued the source - reaching his trap set underneath the window of the killer shack, he found the sneaky one with her foot caught and bloodied. The street urchin with boyish hair looked up at him defiantly, her lips pursed. “Well if you’re gonna hit me, do it, you coward,” she spat.

_ “Bold words from the fool who stepped into my trap,”  _ he growled right back, raising his blade. With a sickening squelch, the cleaver bit deep into the skin of her shoulder, earning an ear-splitting scream as the girl crumpled to the ground.

_ “Nea!”  _

The panicked voice was followed by a cut-off gasp and the Trapper turned his gaze to look at the owner of that voice. Standing there with horror on her face was…

_ Her.  _ The athletic one with the fiery red hair, vibrant blue eyes, and agile little legs. Two things about that girl confused him to no end: one - why he was so interested in her. Why he couldn’t seem to look away from her. And two - why there was a faint red string connecting them. Had been from the very beginning. 

Apparently he’d stared blankly at the red-head long enough that another one of the pests had come to help the street urchin off the ground, leaving him aggravated and startled… and standing alone with his trap. Carefully resetting it, he tried not to linger on the sudden anger and dismay he felt.  _ Why?  _ This hadn’t been the first time he’d hesitated in some way in front of that girl, and it was growing increasingly annoying. 

With the other mongrels, he was sure and steady and cruel. He showed the maggots their place. He put them out of their misery. And yet something seemed to stay his hand where that red-head was concerned. 

The trial continued, and while the little wretches worked well together, they were hardly any match for him. Ironically, the last one left was the red-head. ‘Meg,’ her name was. Not that he cared. Of course he didn’t. Names were meaningless, hers even more so. Instead he simply gave chase. Absolutely dead-set on seeing this trial through and pushing through the odd fascination he had for her, the Trapper raised his blade as she vaulted over a window and managed to leave a nasty gash along her upper back, earning a scream and a stumble. He continued his chase - but there was no need to, because in moments he heard the  **_CLAP_ ** of a trap and her agonized cry right nearby. 

When he got to her, the Trapper stopped just short of the red-head as she struggled with the iron so tightly clamped down on her ankle, gnawing into her pale skin and staining it sanguine. He could smell the copper she’d spilled, could hear her whimpering and panting as trembling fingers struggled to fit between the angry teeth of the trap. The monster continued to stare, entranced - entranced by the way her lip trembled, the way those bright blue eyes shifted in panic between him and the trap, the way some red hair stuck to the sweat on her face. “Why are you staring?!” the red-head finally demanded, giving up on escape. As she succumbed to the knowledge that she’d die here, her brows drew in defiantly and she gave him the nastiest glare she could muster. “How stupid are you?!”

_ “You insult me again and again,”  _ he rumbled, half angered and half amused.

“I do?”

His eyes narrowed behind his mask. Did she not remember anything? That would explain a lot. Considering each time he stopped and stared, the girl seemed even more shocked than he was.  _ “Yes… you do,”  _ the killer responded, tilting his head and watching her. Her posture screamed rebellion; as if dying was the least of her worries, now. Making sure he didn’t get the last word was her goal.  _ “But beneath all of that blustering… you’re just a scared Little Rabbit.” _

“I-I’m not scared of you,” Meg growled, keeping her expression surprisingly even… but he could hear the faint tremor in her voice. A grin twisted his scarred lips. “You’re nothing but a big dumb turtle. You’re so slow it makes snails look like… well,  _ me.” _

A low snort came from the massive killer.  _ “Even so,”  _ he said almost patiently, stepping forward,  _ “no matter how fast you are… you still end up in my grasp.” _

When he reached for her, all pretenses were thrown out the window. Her defiance melted into sheer panic and, wide-eyed, the red-head flailed and screamed at him, trying her best to slip out of the trap but only managing to chew more into her own ankle. As he grabbed the girl, ripping her from the trap and earning a howl of pain from her, a startling emotion filled his chest, nearly stopping him in his tracks on the way to a hook…

The same feeling that had grasped him when he’d sold out the miners to his father. Knowing they would die horribly for their sins. And yet they had been his  _ friends,  _ hadn’t they? What had that feeling been...

_ Regret. _

It was so brief, so fleeting that he shook himself out of it and took her to a hook. With brute strength he shoved her down onto it - as the rusty point pierced her, Meg let out a cry of utter agony and squirmed for a moment in protest before going still.

And as the life drained out of her, the Trapper stared up at her, face expressionless under his mask. He said nothing. 

He  _ felt  _ nothing.


	17. Lines Drawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! I apologize for any grammatical, spelling, or continuity errors! I hope you all enjoy where things are headed - and as always, THANK YOU for reading and sticking with me through this journey! <3

**_17\. Lines Drawn_ **

**_[ Meeting 107-3; the Campfire. ]_ **

  
  


Meg had no damn clue why she’d bothered to stay by Evan’s side while he remained unconscious. The silence had given her quite a while to think about what was going on, what she’d agreed to help Claudette do, the insanity that surrounded them… and Meg’s own personal feelings on all of it.

She’d come to the conclusion that somehow, in some way, she  _ cared  _ about Evan. It was the only explanation for her erratic actions and dumb decisions. Even though his past was drenched in blood, even though he’d looked her in the eye and told her he felt nothing for her, she couldn’t help it. 

And that was why she sat here now, at his side with her knees drawn to her chest, waiting for him to wake up.

Meg had told Claudette she would escort her to Coldwind, but that their journey would have to wait until Evan woke up. She doubted any of the others would appreciate her leaving a killer at the campfire unattended -  _ she _ knew (mostly) that he wouldn’t hurt them, but  _ they  _ didn’t.

So she sat. Oddly enough she was never summoned to a trial like plenty of the others were; and even as people came and went, and the remaining survivors patched up those who came back with wounds, Meg sat still, right next to Evan’s body.

She’d finally rested her forehead against her knees and closed her eyes for a brief rest when he stirred. At first Meg was so tired that she didn’t see his eyes open - but eventually the shifting of his body caused her to lift her head, peering at him with sleepy blue-gray eyes. Evan slowly reached up and grabbed at the mask that had been haphazardly put on his face, bringing it down to rest in his lap. Meg sucked in a breath, biting down on her lip as her gaze met with his bare face. It seemed that no matter how many times she saw him, he still managed to take her breath away. 

She watched his expression shift from unconsciousness to confusion to shock. He was clearly as befuddled by his presence at the campfire as everyone else was; those who were around peered at him almost owlishly, waiting to see what he would do. Meg could tell just by looking at him that Evan knew the full extent of the eyes watching him and what they meant; all of his movements then were slow and deliberate, as if he didn’t want to startle anyone. The massive man sat up, shifted to look around fully, and then focused back on Meg. The intensity of those white eyes had an involuntary shiver rolling down her spine. “You’re finally awake,” she managed. “Took you long enough.”

He merely gave her an irritated grumble. When his hand reached up to scratch at his head, Dwight burst from his tent, wielding a branch in shaking hands. “D-Don’t try anything, pal!” the bespectacled boy whimpered, looking much less threatening than he wanted. “I-I mean it! David taught me a few things, I-I won’t hesitate to -”

“Enough,” Evan growled, swatting the stick away. With a squeak Dwight returned to his tent and the tension in the air thickened.

Stifling a small smile, Meg scooted closer to Evan - so close that the hulking killer looked her up and down, surprise reflected in his eyes, and his broad shoulders stiffened up. “I can’t even sit next to you, now?” she asked bitterly, causing an angry frown to curl his scarred lips. 

Evan’s jaw tightened as he stared down at her. When their eyes locked, the campfire, the other survivors,  _ everything _ melted away, leaving the two of them alone with each other. That understanding passed between them again and the red-head’s expression softened. “Really, though… what the heck took you so long to wake up?”

The killer’s expression darkened. “Memories. Memories so… sharp… and insinuating… that I am not sure… if they are real.”

Meg tilted her head curiously. “What do you mean, not sure if they’re real? W-What, uh, did you see??”

He looked away, seeming uncertain - an expression she didn’t see on him often. “It’s… nothing.”

The girl frowned - it wasn’t hard to tell that he was lying - but she let it go for the moment and finally hauled herself to her feet. “We’re in,” she said, stretching and wincing as her injuries pulled. They still hadn’t fully healed from her previous encounters; must’ve been some special punishment the Entity had conjured up.

“What?” 

As Evan stood up next to her, he rose… and rose… and rose. Until she had to tip her head back to look up at him, her nose nearly coming level with his nipples. She consistently seemed to forget just how  _ gigantic  _ he really was, despite the evidence being right in her face at all times. Meg was so close she could feel the sweltering heat of his body, could hear the low, rumbling breaths deep in his chest, could see beads of sweat developing on his muscled arms. Every part of her was drawn in, and she found her hands moving of their own accord, raising toward his pectorals - and stopping short of his skin, like they always did. Hadn’t she always called him a coward? And here  _ she  _ was the one being a coward. 

Then again, he had told her how he felt - and she needed to respect that.

As Meg looked up at his face, however, she could see something in his eyes… something brimming there that certainly didn’t seem like hatred or apathy or anything of the sort. Maybe admiration… even desire. She’d seen that look on the faces of others; boys from high school, maybe even Jake once upon a time. But none seemed to impact her like those emotions in Evan’s eyes.

Abruptly Meg took a step back, clearing her throat. “T-The survivors,” she said, trying to get back on track. “We’re in. Tearing this whole damn place to the ground. Getting the hell out of here.  _ We’re in.”  _ As he nodded his understanding with a new expression that was something similar to apprehension, Meg continued. “Do you think any of the other killers would… would help us??”

His jaw clenched and unclenched. Meg had grown so fond of that little gesture; but the expression on his face was suspicious. Was there something he’d remembered that he wasn’t telling her? Or was he beginning to change his mind? Setting her hands on her hips, she fixed the man with a sharp look. “Are you gonna go and back out on me - I mean, on us??” she demanded. “After everything that’s happened? Don’t tell me you’re -”

_ “No.”  _ He shook his head, hands tightening into fists. “I have not… changed my mind.”

“You want out of here as badly as we do, don’t you?” Meg prompted, biting down on her lip. “You want to escape this place.” A pause. “... What are you going to do in the real world?”

He watched her, his jaw working in that charming way it always did. “Another time,” he finally grunted. 

Meg sighed slightly, running a hand through her hair and taking another step back. He was still too close for comfort; the natural instinct to reach out and touch him was almost overwhelming. “I’m going with Claudette to Coldwind,” she finally said. “She wants me to guide her there. So she can talk to… the Hillbilly.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

There was something in his voice; something similar to… protectiveness? 

Focusing on the conversation at hand and refusing to get distracted by her own delusions, Meg continued. “I think she sees something in him…” the red-head shrugged, feeling somewhat bashful all of a sudden. The words came out before she could control them. “Kind of like… kind of like I see something in you.”

His shoulders tensed; muscles in his arms flexed. Jumpy.  _ Scared…?  _ “You called me… a monster.”

Her heart sank. Her voice was quiet. “I did.”

“You… meant it.”

“I did.”

“You… don’t anymore?”

Meg had averted her gaze in shame, but the question had her looking back up at the massive man. The moment they locked eyes she felt her breath catch and all those confusing feelings rushed back up to the surface. She remembered the horrible things he’d done; the way he’d placed her on a hook or sank his blade into her skin… the way he had tortured her with white-hot, blistering pleasure only for the Entity to separate them before he could go too far. Meg could remember all of those things clear as day; but she also remembered the way he’d been punished for saving her. The way he’d helped Jake find and free her from the Legion’s grasp. The guilt and pain in his eyes as he spoke of his past.

_ Evan wasn’t a monster.  _ She couldn’t place why or how she knew.  _ She just did.  _

“No,” she finally whispered, voice quivering. Eyes glassy. “I don’t.”

* * *

The others around the campfire hadn’t been satisfied until Evan was fully escorted off the premises. Only then was Meg able to grab Claudette and sneak away again, this time to Coldwind farm. The skies overhead shifted from cool colors to warm colors and they emerged from the endless forestry into a field of corn. In the middle of it all was a large farm house that looked like it’d been abandoned for years. This scene was a familiar one; during trials, killers of all kinds had done horrible things to them. 

A shudder ran through both girls as they made their way closer to the center of the area, but their fear was filtered with anticipation as well. The Hillbilly’s connection to Claudette had seemed to change the dynamic between them, and Meg had to admit she was pretty hopeful that he would help them. He certainly wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box but he was strong, he was fast, and he had a fucking  _ chainsaw.  _ If anyone could help rip up the Entity’s realm, it was the Hillbilly - Max, as Claudette had called him.

They heard the almost grinding sound of his breathing before they even saw him and, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck raise, Meg grabbed her friend’s hand and spun around to face the killer. He held his mallet in a tight grip, the weapon half-raised - until he saw Claudette. His empty golden eyes roamed her dark skin, his expression seeming to soften a bit. The mallet lowered - and although both girls were still on guard, they found they could finally release the breath they’d been holding.

Claudette, still holding on anxiously to Meg’s hand, took a hesitant step forward. “M-Max,” she said, dark eyes lifting to look up at him. The petite girl had to tip her head back in order to meet the lumbering killer’s gaze. His eyes never moved to Meg or anything else; they remained glued to Claudette, as if she was the only thing in the world. As Meg watched, she was struck with a conflicted feeling.

_ Evan looks at me that way… but he said he feels nothing for me.  _

What was she supposed to believe? 

Claudette’s voice brought her back to the present. “M-Max… I know that we are c-connected. I don’t know w-why - but… I believe we’re meant t-to work together. T-To  _ help each other.  _ If we can tear this place down - weaken the Entity - we could get out of here! We could return to the real world - to our families.”

He continued to stare down at her, sounding like a growling coyote with each breath he took. Something in his posture told Meg that he was uncertain… but listening. In a rare show of bravery Claudette reached out and took hold of his arm. The Hillbilly visibly flinched, eyes moving down to their connected skin briefly. The dark-haired girl merely looked up at his scarred, deformed face with an expression Meg knew all-too well: compassion. 

She  _ knew  _ there was another reason for this little trip.

Claudette didn’t just want the Hillbilly’s help: she  _ felt  _ something for him. Whether it was of the romantic sort or simply the compassion she showed to all poor creatures, Meg wasn’t sure, but there was  _ something _ there. 

The Hillbilly’s distorted face began to stretch as he opened his mouth in a strange attempt to speak. Though the sounds were warbled, the two girls easily knew what he was trying to say:  _ “alone.” _

Even Meg felt a small pebble of empathy for the killer.  _ That  _ was why he was hesitant, maybe even scared; because in the real world…  _ he was alone. _

Claudette frowned, her grip tightening a little on his arm, giving him a comforting squeeze. “You won’t be… n-not if I have anything to say about it.” After the two stared at each other a moment longer, she whispered,  _ “please… Max.” _

He nodded slowly. The smiles that graced the girls’ faces was enough to cause his face to contort a little as well - and Meg soon enough realized that he was trying to smile, too.

* * *

The MacMillan Estate was eerily silent. The ghost of his father still whispered, occasionally, but now more than ever Evan was left to his own thoughts as he traversed the grounds, back to the main house. 

The  **_CLAP_ ** of a trap on the edge of the grounds grabbed his attention. Someone had come here willingly. Purposefully. Evan’s first thought went to Meg; was she back already? Was she safe? Had she been able to enlist the Hillbilly’s help?

The hunter began a quick pace toward the source of the noise and the sight that greeted him halted Evan in his tracks. Through the holes of his mask he saw none other than Herman Carter, leaning on a tree with his arms folded over his chest and a grin perpetually plastered onto his face. The Doctor had never bothered to come to his Estate before, and he couldn’t say he was happy to see him now. Evan’s brows furrowed, jaw clenching in annoyance at the sight. “What… do you want?” he demanded, grip tightening on his cleaver.

A giggle came from the other killer. “Consider yourself enlisted, Evan-boy,” Herman said suavely. “Things are coming to a nasty little head here in our perfect world and we must rise up to defend it.”

Evan’s shoulders filled with tension and ice slid down his spine.  _ The dream he’d had. _

_ It wasn’t a dream. _

Danny had come to visit him, and he had agreed to help. His first instinct was to blame himself. How could he have agreed to something like that? 

He’d been a different person, back then.

_ “No,”  _ he growled immediately.

Herman’s expression contorted only minutely. His empty grin forcefully remained, but his eyes hardened; put aside the facade of warmth. “Now now, Evan-boy, you made a promise to the little Ghost-runt. It wouldn’t be very honorable to go back on your word.”

“Ironic that  _ you…  _ talk about… honor.” Evan brandished his cleaver threateningly; though the Doctor was a very bulky man, and quite tall, Evan had him by a few inches and a few pounds. Not to mention he was the only one with a weapon - then again… the Doctor had that electricity at his disposal. Still, Evan was confident he had a shot. “Herman…  _ leave.” _

Herman leaned off the tree, tilting his head. “I had a feeling you might need some convincing,” he said smoothly. “How about this, Evan-boy: you do what you agreed upon like an honorable man, or we kill that delicious little red-head you like so much.”

Evan stiffened up. “You… can’t. Survivors can’t… die.”

That grin grew impossibly wide. Of all the killers Evan had had the displeasure of ever interacting with, Herman Carter was certainly the creepiest. It was the words, not the grin, however, that chilled the Trapper to the bone: “Well, see now, the thing about the Entity is… it  _ wants  _ to keep us here. So if my dear Lisa whispers with it… asks it to help us preserve this place… we have a strong feeling that it’ll oblige.”

Evan’s eyes widened. His entire body felt as frozen as if he was in a block of ice; muscles wouldn’t respond, feet wouldn’t move, his mouth wouldn’t open. He couldn’t even breathe. He only stared at the other who grew increasingly pleased with the situation. “It… wants to keep… survivors here… too,” he finally managed. “It wouldn’t… sacrifice her.”

“Oh - it wouldn’t?” Herman giggled. “It wouldn’t sacrifice one measly little, ahh - what do you call her? Oh, that’s correct - the  _ Little Rabbit.  _ You don’t think the Entity would get rid of one little rabbit in order to keep the rest of us here…? You forget, Evan-boy - survivors can be replaced.  _ She  _ can be replaced.~”

Evan’s voice was low; filled with absolute fury. “She can  _ not.” _

The Doctor shrugged. “Well, the fact of the matter is, whether you think she is valuable or not - we  _ can  _ kill her. And we will.”

Evan stared at the ground, trying to control his breathing. He always had pretty good control of his emotions; but the moment Meg was put in danger, all logic went out the window. His only concern was to  _ protect her. _

_ Protect Meg. _

Was her life worth everyone’s freedom? The whole reason Evan had agreed to help was… because of her. If she died… did he even care to help the others? 

His gaze finally lifted to the electric blue eyes of the other killer. “What… do you want me… to do?”

  
Herman smiled. “Do what you do best, Evan-boy.  _ Hunt.  _ Hunt anyone who stands in our way.”


	18. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am so sorry for the delay in this chapter; things have been going on in my personal life that have distracted me from writing. 2020 has been a crazy ass year and I hope you all have been safe and well! I'm already hard at work starting the next chapter and I appreciate all the people who've followed this story and given such supportive and encouraging comments. The next chapters will be full of some graphic content and there will be some character death - just a warning there! 
> 
> I hope everyone likes the small moment of long-awaited fluff before shit hits the fan - but don't worry, there will be plenty more romance and fluff before the end of this story. That's why they call it a SLOW burn, right? ;] I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my good friend Wazzup, who's been gracious enough to beta read not only this work but plenty of others. Thank you so much for everything!!! <3
> 
> Final notes: in the comments, please let me know which characters you'd like to see more of! I have my own personal favorites, and I definitely plan to include Ash more (cause let's face it, he's awesome), but I'd like to know everyone else's thoughts! And once again, THANK YOU all for reading!!

**_18\. Betrayal_ **

**_[ Meeting 108; Yamaoka Estate. ]_ **

Chaos ensued. The trials were more disorganized than ever, each realm growing increasingly strange and off-kilter. In some matches, generators would be upside down and impossible to fix. Many maps would merge with each other and both killers and survivors ran rampant. Quite a few of them had begun to work together, and some matches were spent simply destroying everything they could get their hands on in order to weaken the Entity.

But Meg had begun noticing a pattern. Several of the killers never did anything but hunt them viciously, continuing the Entity’s games like normal, sacrificing like diligent little worker ants. It was clear that they weren’t going to help everyone escape the Entity’s realm, and even more clear how brutal and heartless they really were. They were the real monsters here, along with the Entity.

Lines had officially been drawn.

And Meg was actually quite surprised at the killers that were on their side - or at least civil enough to help the cause for their own reasons. 

Currently the red-head ran across a stone platform that led to a small log cabin, looking for anything she could possibly use to smash one of the generators. Two realms, Red Forest and The Temple of Purgation, had fused together in a strange, dystopian wreck in which rural log cabins and an elegant, religious stone temple blended together in odd formations. Ash trotted along beside her, weirdly stone-faced. Meg couldn’t remember a time when the older man wasn’t cracking a joke or coming on to one of the females. Glancing sideways at him, she said, “you look like something’s on your mind.”

Ash looked over at her, immediately putting that playful facade into place. “Just thinkin’ bout all the ways I can make that Lebanese girl scream.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “You do know Zarina is lesbian… right?”

“No; she’s Lebanese. Big difference, Red.” Ash’s tone made it clear he was messing with her, and Meg suppressed a smile.

“What’s  _ really  _ on your mind, old man?” Meg asked. “In all the discussions we had about all of this, you’ve weirdly kept your ‘pearls of wisdom’ to yourself.”

“Guess I don’t have one.”

“Bullshit.”

Ash half-grinned as the pair came upon the ruins of where a log cabin and a large rock monument smacked together, leaving splinters and abandoned stones in their wake. “These stones’ll do in a jam,” the man said with a nod, setting his hands on his hips. Meg’s gaze went to the right hand - the one that wasn’t actually a hand anymore. It was a glove, a robotic one apparently; all the survivors had heard the stories and most of them called bullshit. Then again… being in the Fog this long was enough to begin shattering preconceived notions and building new ideas. Maybe Ash wasn’t a braggart after all; and if his stories were true, then this realm was nothing compared to where he came from. In fact, Meg doubted things changed much for him at all here - hell, maybe he even  _ preferred _ it here. She knew she would.

Meg paused as realization hit her.

Ash, straightening up after stopping to scoop up one of the heavy stones, arched a brow skeptically in that way he always did. Meg couldn’t help but gape at him. “Of course,” she muttered. “Why would you want to leave this place? Compared to all the crazy stuff you’ve been through… why on earth would you  _ want  _ to go back?”

Ash considered her shrewdly. Meg tensed up; she often forgot that underneath all the bravado and inappropriate sexual comments, he was a dangerous man who’d been through hell and back before he even reached the Fog. “Ya know for a hot little red-head with damn fine legs, you think too much.”

Meg scowled. Okay, that was more like it. “Can’t you be serious for once?!” she growled.

“Alright, want me to be serious?” He approached her, holding the stone against his hip so he could lean down to her level and fix her with a stare that made her shrink back. “Listen good, Red. I  _ like playing the hero.  _ Whether that’s here, or back on earth, or in a  _ goddamn time vortex,  _ doesn’t matter to me. Now are we gonna blow this place to Cancun or what??”

“O-Okay.”

“Groovy.” He clucked his tongue at her, a grin curling his lips.

Meg stared at him, suddenly wishing she’d paid better attention when Ash told his stories around the campfire. Blinking owlishly and creeping around him, the red-head picked out a rock of her own and began using it to bash the nearest hook. With each passing moment, the destruction of the map caused tremors and shifts as the Entity fought to keep control over the trial; one such tremor threw Meg off-balance and she slammed right into Ash’s side, knocking them both onto the ground. “When I pictured you on top of me, I had something much sweeter in mind,” the man grumbled, shifting under her and getting to his feet, helping her in the process. 

Meg ignored the harassment. That was nothing out of the ordinary. “Before you joined me - who else is here? What killers? I imagine they’re ones who are working with us, because I haven’t heard any screams or anything. I -”

Meg’s voice cut off when black pooled across the ground at their feet and suddenly claws were grabbing her, pulling her down. Meg screamed and immediately Ash offered his left hand to her, grabbing onto her and pulling to the best of his ability. The survivor roared with effort as he tried to keep the red-head from sinking into the darkness - when a spidery leg came up and pierced him, right through his left forearm. With a wail Ash let go, stumbling backwards, and the last thing Meg remembered was screaming as loud as she could before the blackness overtook her.

* * *

When Meg landed on the ground with a thud, pain zipped up her shoulder and down her spine. With a groan, she lifted her face from the grass and looked around. The Yamaoka Estate; and by all intents and purposes it seemed…  _ normal. _

_ Strange. _

This was obviously a new trial, but the last one hadn’t even fallen apart before she’d been taken. So the real question was:  _ why would the Entity send her here?  _ To keep her separated from others? Perhaps they were all stronger together. Or maybe the Entity was just screwing with her. Punishing her for her disobedience. 

It wasn’t long before she was on her feet and looking around for any familiar face, survivor or killer. Soon enough she found Nea, who had kicked over a flaming barrel to set fire to a corner of the map. Retreating from the growing heat, the two girls began looking for another area of the map where they could cause damage. They didn’t have weapons like the killers did, so it was up to makeshift tools or their own bodies to get the job done. “Is it just me, or is this creepy as hell? The map - it’s just…  _ normal?”  _ Nea asked, narrowing her eyes on her surroundings.

Meg simply nodded, following along. Just as Nea used a toolbox she’d found to begin pounding against a generator, the two girls heard a strange grinding sound; Meg had no clue what it could be, but Nea recognized the sound immediately. Whipping around and brandishing the toolbox, she demanded,  _ “show yourself, bell boy.” _

Ringing bells preceded the sight of none other than the Wraith uncloaking himself and standing before them both; as tall as Evan but much skinnier, he was still nonetheless a frightening sight with his empty white eyes, wide shoulders and spindly legs. But Meg knew already that the Wraith was on their side. Probably had been from the beginning. She’d always gotten the feeling that the bell-ringing killer had never wanted to be here anyways. She wondered if his story was just as dark and tragic as Evan’s was…

Maybe when they were all out of here, she’d get the chance to ask.

Meg’s eyes moved over to the red string that connected Nea and the Wraith, glowing brightly and pulsing with life. The killer and survivor stared at one another, and Meg watched them lock eyes, wondering if this was another case of opposites becoming attached to one another. Like Claudette and…  _ Max.  _ Had Nea gotten attached to the Wraith?

That was a surprising thought considering Nea really never got attached to  _ anyone. _

“Are you gonna help us, or not?” Nea asked, her voice taking on a tone Meg had never heard before. Still demanding, still typical Nea, but there was a softness there that the red-head hadn’t known existed.

The Wraith nodded, gaze moving finally from Nea over to Meg. He reached out toward her and Meg flinched back, freezing in place. His fingers brushed over her forehead, then his arm fell back to his side. “Tra… pper.”

Meg arched a brow. “Evan… what about him?”

“He… you. Red…”

“The red strings, yes,” she answered. “Just like you and Nea. And the Nurse, too…”

He nodded. Just as Meg opened her mouth to speak again, she heard the signature  **_CLAP_ ** of a bear trap in the distance and her eyes widened. “Evan is here, too,” she whispered. The Wraith nodded again. After exchanging glances with Nea, the red-head said, “I… I have to go. Nea; be safe.”

As Meg felt the wind fill her ears and stir her hair, she couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. She hadn’t seen Evan since that night at the survivors’ campfire. How long ago had that been…? Time moved differently in the Fog; so much so that she had no idea what year it was or how long she’d been away from home. Perhaps she’d go back and her mother would be dead. Perhaps she’d come back to an age of robots and flying cars. That thought process led back to Evan, and a sense of despair filled her. He’d been the very first; the first creature to enter the Fog. God only knows how long it had been for him… He’d be going back to a world completely strange to him. Meg couldn’t help but think that, if given the opportunity… maybe she could show him this new world. They could… navigate these unfamiliar waters together.

That thought was silly, though. They may have had the ‘red string connection’ but he’d said there was nothing more than that. A small nagging feeling tugged at the back of her mind that he was lying, but she didn’t want to make this out to be more than it was. And that was because there were a million good reasons why there  _ shouldn’t  _ be more.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of happiness at the thought of seeing him again after… who knew how long. Maybe a week? More? On her way to the sound of the closing trap, Meg turned a corner around a building and ran face-first into a brick wall.

Evan’s chest. 

* * *

Meg was the last person he’d wanted to run into. Though she was the reason he was doing what he was doing, he couldn’t bear to look at her in the face and try to explain himself. Because when she found out… he would lose her. He would lose the warmth in her stare and the playful smile on her lips. He would lose Meg. And he knew it.

But he’d rather lose her… than  _ lose her. _

When she ran straight into him, the force of her small body against his own knocked her clean off her feet, gasping for air. Evan paused for a moment, unable to think clearly or react; he’d been desperately hoping not to see her and now he’d knocked her to the ground. Finally rational thought kicked in and he lowered a hand to pull her gently to her feet. He opened his mouth to ask if she was alright when -

\- when he felt deceptively strong little arms wrap around his waist, her warm petite body pressing against his own.

Meg was  _ hugging him. _

Evan froze, every muscle in his body tensing up. He didn’t know what to do, or even what to think or how to feel. Despite their… sexual history,  _ this  _ had certainly never happened. This hug was warm, full of happiness, full of…

Dare he think it?

No. He wouldn’t. But he also couldn’t help the way his body reacted; every part of him absolutely aching to touch her. To caress her. To  _ hug her back. _ And so he did - he couldn’t help himself. The man slid his arms around her narrow shoulders and held her to him, stunned by the immense emotion in such a simple touch. Her vulnerability was so bright it was blinding, and Evan metaphorically found himself crouching and whimpering in Meg’s light. 

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, the action stirring a lock of her red hair. Instinctively he turned his face to bury his nose in that hair, taking in her scent. She was pine and smoke and remnants of perfume; she was  _ Meg. _

He was doing horrible things to save her… and also to damn her. When he thought about it, was this  _ really  _ what Meg would want? If it came down to risking death for freedom or being stuck here forever, he was almost certain the red-head would choose freedom.

So  _ why was he doing this again? _

Was he really doing this for  _ her…  _ or for  _ himself? _

Deep down, he knew he was being selfish. Just as he was being selfish that very moment, basking in the warmth of her affection. He should tell her the truth, and tell her now - better yet, he should keep his word to her and help her escape. Even if it meant his own demise or an eternity of torture. 

But he couldn’t bear the thought of her not existing.

“Evan,” he heard her murmur against his shoulder, her voice soft. The word alone was enough to stoke the coals nestling in his abdomen, and he pulled her tighter against him, unwilling to let go for at least another moment.

Finally, he did pull back, staring down at her through the holes in his mask and trying to maintain his self-control. “I… didn’t expect… to see you,” he finally managed, voice coming out lower than intended. 

Those bright blue-gray eyes lifted to gaze up at him and a gut-wrenching smile curled her lips. The glow with which she was looking at him felt undeserved. “I haven’t seen you much lately,” the red-head replied, confusion slightly contorting the smile. Questions in her eyes. Perhaps she knew he’d been avoiding her. Guilt clenched his stomach again and he released her fully, taking a step back to put a little distance between her. The remembrance of her warm, affectionate fingers on his skin now burned like a sweltering flame, punishing him for accepting a gift he did not earn.

“Busy,” he said dismissively, hoping she wouldn’t pester. But knowing Meg… she wouldn’t just let that go. “I… am glad. To see you.”

Her smile grew warm again and her hand lifted. He watched that little hand, so full of affection and life and sweet sweet comfort - but before she had a chance to touch him again, a scream was heard across the map.

Nea’s scream.

Evan could see her face fall and concern knitted her brows. “That doesn’t make sense,” she muttered. “Wraith would never hurt her - and you’re here…”

Evan’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what was happening, but was loathe to tell her. Meg turned to run in the direction of the noise, but the killer reached out and snatched the hood of her jacket. “It’s too dangerous,” he insisted.

She glanced back at him, irritation written all over her face. “Then come with me,” she replied stubbornly.

Pain bloomed in his chest - but it had nothing to do with the Entity or punishment. No, Evan had come to recognize this as guilt - something he hadn’t felt since he was young. Not until  _ this.  _ Knowing she wouldn’t listen, knowing she wouldn’t give in, he let out a gruff sigh and followed her. She was quick as a hare but his long legs enabled the hulking man to keep pace. They followed the sound of Nea’s wails toward the flat townhouse on one side of the estate and Meg stepped up on the small dais leading into the building, cautious.

Evan followed close behind, feeling anger gnaw at his stomach. This wasn’t going to go well. But if this was how it had to end… so be it.

* * *

Concern tightened Meg’s chest and shortened her breath. Perhaps the Wraith had changed his mind about helping them, or maybe he’d tricked them all along - although deception didn’t appear to be the cloaked killer’s usual tactic. That was something the Doctor would do. 

Inside the building, she saw blood. A trail of it, smeared over the floor. It led down to the basement and fear palpitated Meg’s heart as she followed it, steadying herself with shaking fingers on the wall. “Nea??” she asked, immediately feeling stupid. If she had any chance of rescuing her friend, surprise would have given her an edge. The only measure of comfort she held onto was the fact that Evan was behind her, breathing deep and gruff like a bear, imposing and mean. He would help her. He would save Nea. She was sure of it. Down into the basement the girl bravely went - until she stopped at the bottom of the steps, gaping at the scene before her.

Nea laid on the ground, covered in blood while the Clown straddled her, not unlike the way he’d done to Meg on more than one occasion. The red-head felt bile rise in the back of her throat and rage contorted her features. “Get off of her, you fucking pervert!” she growled, though something made her stay in place. Perhaps it was the knife gleaming in one hand as he held Nea’s wrist firmly with the other; maybe it was the three severed fingers strewn across the basement floor.

Or maybe it was the cold gleam in his eyes and the cruel smile twisting his wet lips. 

Meg could feel Evan behind her, still and silent. She briefly wondered why he hadn’t already done something. Why he wasn’t wrestling the Clown off of Nea and saving her. Hadn’t he agreed to help the survivors? Why was he just  _ standing there? _

The Clown’s voice, all ragged and wet with sick, interrupted her thoughts. “Evan… or should I say, the Trapper. Heh. Better you than that skinny, bell-ringing hack.”

“Jeffrey,” Evan growled, obviously displeased but still  _ not moving. _

Meg finally dared to glance up and behind at her protector, and saw a familiar tension in his shoulders. He was at a crossroads, it seemed. But  **why?**

The Clown stood up, and Nea moaned softly, bringing her almost fingerless hand to her chest and cradling it. The large, rotund killer grabbed the girl by her shoulders and put her on a hook as casually as he might drink a latte or file his nails. Meg gasped, taking a step forward - until a hand caught her shoulder, pulling her back. “How DARE you!” she growled, hands clenching into fists. Then she whipped her gaze around to focus on Evan, a mixture of rage and hurt in her eyes. “And  _ you -  _ I thought you were supposed to help us!  _ Why are you stopping me?!” _

The Clown - Jeffrey, as Evan had called him - wiped his blade on his sleeve and stooped to collect all the fingers he’d clipped. “You don’t know, do ya?” he asked, before coughing a few times and spitting on the floor. “He’s on our side, girl - decided your freedom wasn’t worth anything -”

“That is  _ not true,”  _ Evan growled, taking a step forward so that he was standing next to Meg rather than beside her. Jeffrey took a step toward them, still grinning, and Evan grabbed Meg and pulled her into his side.  _ “Don’t touch her,”  _ he rumbled, every muscle in his body clenched in preparation to fight.  _ “That was the deal.” _

“Looks like ya got your voice back, eh?” Jeffrey said, loitering around where Nea was hanging almost lifelessly from the hook. “What the Entity takes away… it can give back, am I right?” His beady eyes went from the killer to the survivor struggling against his side and a grunt of amusement left him. “She doesn’t even want to be near you. Look at that.” A pause. “Well, I suggest you leave - and take her with you. Because if she’s left down here… I might just decide to have fun with her just like I did her friend. And we all know what might happen if I decide to do that…” accompanying his words was a finger slowly scraping across his fat neck.

It didn’t take a genius to know what that meant. But Meg was so enraged - with the Clown, with Evan, with the entire fucking situation - that she threw herself out of his grasp with everything she had and launched at Nea to try and pull her off the hook... but Evan was quicker. He put himself between Meg and the Clown to fend off any attacks, all while grabbing Meg and hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The red-head screamed in fury at the top of her lungs, kicking, hitting, writhing as the hulking killer ascended the basement stairs.  _ “Nea will return to the campfire,” _ he rumbled over the sounds of her screams, guilt lacing his voice as he carried her away.  _ “You won’t.” _

Meg was too far gone to listen. Not right now. In her rage she managed to find one of the metal shards sticking out of the killer’s skin and she pulled and twisted as hard as he could. Evan roared in pain and stumbled enough that she could wiggle free and drop to the ground. Stumbling to her feet, Meg whirled around and launched herself at him with the sole intent of  _ hurting him.  _

And this time, he just stood there, taking it. Meg suddenly heard the familiar screams of another survivor - Laurie. Laurie was a fighter just like Meg; always had been. But if the Entity had full control over this arena, and if there really were killers rallying behind their master, then the poor girl would have no chance. The only reason Meg herself had a chance, it seemed, was because of the very man taking her punches and scratches without a word. 

Panting, Meg pulled away. When her eyes lifted to look at his mask, she found herself on the verge of tears and unable to lift a single finger to wipe them away. So they fell as she stared at him, lower lip trembling as she tried to figure out what to say. Finally, she managed,  _ “why…?” _

He glanced away, head turning as if unable to look at her. “LOOK at me!” Meg growled. “Look me in the eye and tell me why you… you  _ betrayed  _ us! I stood up for you, with the others - I told them you could be trusted! So  **_why?”_ **

* * *

“So  **_why?”_ **

What could he say to that? Even if he told her why he’d done it, she wouldn’t accept that answer. No matter what he said to her, she’d never forgive him. So why bother? He was being selfish and he knew it, so he may as well be the monster he was acting like. 

Evan said nothing. The only sound between them other than the distant pained cries of her friends was her ragged breathing and his own slow, even rumbles. He watched silently as the red-head took measures to try and calm herself down and think logically. Finally, she softly said, “Fatso had said something about…  _ that was the deal.  _ What deal did you make with them? Join them so they wouldn’t hurt me?? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I can take the pain and if they kill me then so be it! I’ll just go right back to the campfire -”

_ “No, you won’t,”  _ Evan interrupted, hands clenching.  _ “The Entity has had enough. You won’t go back to the campfire if you die.” _

Meg fell silent. Her expression was one of utter fear now, and Evan felt that familiar pang in his chest.  _ “That was the deal,”  _ she muttered to herself. When she finally looked back up at him, there was anger there - but cold anger. Frosty. Like she was freezing him solid with a single glance. “If you think that my life is worth more than our freedom, then you’re more of a monster than I ever imagined.”

He watched her walk away.


	19. Sympathy - Pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! Another update coming at ya! This chapter is a flashback to chapter 5 - the same scene, told from Evan's point of view! I hope you all enjoy the character development here and the sort of "behind the scenes" insight into the change that took place in Evan's heart. How Meg's bravery and kindness inspired the same in him. The next chapter will get back to the action, don't you worry, but for now please enjoy the hopeful fluff! <3
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to notsojollyroger, who had the idea for this chapter in the first place! Thank you for all your inspiring comments!!! <3

**_19\. Sympathy - Pt. II_ **

**_[ Meeting 94 - MacMillan Estate. ]_ **

Pain. That was all he could seem to comprehend anymore. He felt it so fiercely and so often now that it blocked out everything else. And all the while, every punishment, he could see his father glaring at him. Disappointed - no, enraged.  _ Letting them go is weakness. _

“You’re not my father,” he wanted to tell the figure staring at him, but nothing came out. The Entity had a way of manipulation that rivaled that of his  _ real  _ father. Perhaps that was why he’d served it blindly for so long. Because his father still had a hold on him.

But he was tired. The Trapper was tired. And furthermore… he was…  _ conflicted.  _ He never in his life thought he’d feel such a way - not until he’d seen that damned string. The string connecting himself to… to that girl.  _ Meg.  _ The one he couldn’t seem to stop staring at, the one who had red hair that reminded him of tiger lilies his mother used to plant near the estate, the one who was so wild and free and full of life, even in this joke of a realm. 

Somehow, thinking of her eased the pain - if only a little. 

However, seeming to sense the killer’s contentment, the Entity’s claws rose up from the ground to pierce him with more sharp objects - his chest, his limbs, his stomach, even his head were all targets. A low growl of agony left the massive man and blood, thick and dark, dripped from his wounds. Time passed. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been rigged up, only sure that his limbs were numb and consciousness faded in and out like a horrible fever dream. And his father never left; staring at him. Mocking him. Cruelly instructing him.  _ Hunt them down. Sacrifice them all. That is the ONLY way to be strong, Evan! Put the worms out of their misery! _

Sometimes Archie MacMillan’s urgings worked; and sometimes the Trapper was simply too tired to act on them. 

A gasp caused the killer’s eyes to flutter open. Through blurry vision he could see…  _ her.  _ The Little Rabbit. And that red string connecting them as it always had. She looked absolutely mortified. But he could do nothing other than grunt softly, watching her through heavy eyes, fighting the blackness at the corners of his vision. 

If he had enough energy to be surprised, he would have been - the girl, despite her slim stature and small frame, began yanking things out of his body with deceptive strength and used footholds to free him from the large panel. The Trapper fell, his body limp, limbs too numb to move or flex. He fell right on top of her; he could feel the warmth of her little body, her heavy breathing, the heaving of her chest - and it reminded him of an encounter they’d had some time ago. It was a heated, raw, passionate encounter; but it was also cruel. He’d been much more vicious and monstrous back then. Still, he couldn’t seem to shake the image of her naked and trembling underneath him, so when she pressed her hands against his chest in an effort to get out from beneath him, it took the hulking killer a few moments to respond. 

Finally he mustered the strength to lift himself just enough so the red-head could wriggle out from beneath him - then he collapsed. “The Entity did this,” he vaguely heard her murmur. He expected her to turn tail and run. She’d gone above and beyond what he’d ever expected or deserved already. Most survivors would have pointed and laughed. Taken glee or pleasure in his suffering. And he wouldn’t have blamed them for it. He deserved the punishment he got - yet here Meg was, suddenly grabbing his arm and tugging and yanking desperately. “Get -  _ up!”  _ she growled, straining to lift him.

Something awakened inside the Trapper.  _ She was helping him. She was helping him.  _ The realization played like a mantra in his head as he summoned a small bit of energy he didn’t know he had to get to his feet and limply follow Meg into the factory. She set him down on the stairs - and he fully expected to see her go. But  _ still  _ she remained, beginning to search for something. What, he had no clue. Logically he had to suspect she was looking for a med-kit, but it still shook him to the core when she returned with one in her hands and immediately began rummaging through it and organizing the supplies. The Trapper was suddenly struck with an odd feeling in his chest, one he couldn’t seem to identify, but it made every muscle in his body tense - either with fear or anticipation. 

Then she looked up at him. When their eyes met, that feeling intensified. When Meg reached for his mask, the killer flinched away.

Undeterred, the girl began wrapping up his arms, one by one. “The Entity did this to you,” she said quietly as she worked. “Why? Was it - was it because you…”

The Trapper looked away, unable to bear the concern knitting her brows. He didn’t feel worthy of it - or the bandages she was wrapping around his arm. “... Let… you go?” he finished tiredly. 

She paused. “Yeah.”

He looked back at her. In the many encounters they’d had, he’d been cruel. Mean-spirited. Even vile. Meg was a free spirit with a smart mouth and a tendency to put herself at risk to help her friends. She was kind. She was vibrant. And here she was… putting herself at risk to help  _ him.  _ He’d at one point convinced himself he only spared her because he was growing tired of the Entity’s endless games. That it was nothing more than his own personal act of rebellion. But looking at her now, with gauze in her hands and a confused expression on her face, he knew that wasn’t the truth. But what could he say? How could he tell her?

“... Yes,” he rumbled.

Meg seemed dissatisfied with his answer but either too preoccupied or too nervous to question him. She continued with what she was doing - but when her hands went to his overalls to undo them, the killer flinched and grabbed her wrists tightly in warning. If it wasn’t for the trembling of her little hands and the fluttering of her eyelashes, the Trapper would have believed the burning anger in the red-head’s eyes. Though her voice wavered slightly, she growled, “I need to look at your wounds, you dumb turtle. So are you going to let me, or are you going to be stubborn?”

He cracked a hint of a smile, relieved she couldn’t see it beneath his mask. There was that nickname again. Though she normally said with such poison in her voice that he knew it was nothing but an insult, he couldn’t help but think that maybe the tone in her voice now was… just a little softer. Or perhaps he was imagining it. Wishful thinking. “Dumb turtle…” he murmured.

He could see the fire in her eyes, unwavering and unrelenting despite the shaking of her hands in his own. “Yes, dumb turtle; you’re going to let me wrap up your wounds,  _ and  _ you’re going to answer my questions…  _ Evan.” _

The name caught him off-guard and his body tensed - fearful or thrilled, he wasn’t sure. His eyes narrowed on her. He hadn’t heard that name in such a long time that hearing it roll off her tongue elicited that strange, foreign emotion in his chest once more. Why had he written it on that paper? Why had he even given her that sketch? He was a killer; he had a role to play. Obedience was necessary. Plus, he felt nothing for her. He  _ shouldn’t  _ feel anything for her.

Right…?

Finally he let her hands go, allowing her to do as she pleased. If she was brave enough to argue with him, then she earned the right to have her way. The killer glanced away as she undid his overalls, baring his chest to her, feeling uncomfortable with being so exposed. Only her muttered curse brought his attention back to her and he stared down at the girl as she fumbled for something on the floor. His brows furrowed. Perhaps she was nervous, considering he was a brutal killer who had sacrificed her to the Entity on more than one occasion. That had to be it. That was the logical answer.

As she straightened up, he saw that what she’d been searching for was a needle. “There’s a, uhm, a really bad gash on your chest so I-I have to, uhm -” she began, but he cut her off with a grumble.

“It’s… okay.”

Meg stared long and hard at him, looking like she might hurl at any moment. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away again. He knew that the Entity had warped his body, mutated him into the hideous beast he’d always been on the inside, and the expression on her face was only cementing that fact. “Get it together, Meg,” he heard her mumble. 

Then she set her hands on his chest and the absolute heat that flared in every part of his body was something he’d never felt - either in this realm, or back on earth. It was new, it was uncomfortable, it was…  _ thrilling. _

That foreign pang in his chest came back full-force and it took every ounce of willpower not to grab her hands once more and shove her away. They shouldn’t touch one another - not in this way. Not with care, or kindness. It wasn’t right. It seemed like the stitching took an eternity, considering how on edge and uncomfortable the Trapper felt - but finally she finished, and as soon as her fingers left his skin, he felt like he could breathe again. Meg, on the other hand, looked pleased. “I do a pretty damn good job if I do say so myself,” she exclaimed. 

Once he was able to catch his breath, he took a brief glance down at the work she’d done before looking back up at her face. The red string that connected them began glowing brightly, as if pulsing with life; something it’d never done before. But still the killer could only seem to stare at her face. He wasn’t sure how to express what he was feeling, or even if he  _ should -  _ he could only manage two words, spoken in a low rumble. “Thank you.”

When her eyes abruptly lifted to meet his own, surprise flitting across her features, that feeling hit him straight in the chest. Before he could seem to act on it, however, she surprised him yet again with a demand, although more hesitantly made this time: “I’m going to need to look at your face.”

“It’ll… be fine,” he grunted, an odd sort of panic clenching his lungs. 

“No, it  _ won’t,”  _ Meg insisted, stunning him with a pair of curious hands that reached for his mask.  _ That  _ seemed to finally spur his body into action and his hands went up to catch her wrists just as quickly and roughly as before.  _ Stop, stop, stop,  _ circled his brain on repeat as he held those offending little hands at bay - until he heard a pained whimper escape her lips and fire struck his hands, singeing them painfully. The Trapper let go and stared at them for a moment, wondering where the flames were. It felt like he’d been  _ burned -  _ was that really some form of punishment from the Entity… or merely his own guilt? Why did the thought of hurting her make him feel so…  _ conflicted? _

Meg’s voice broke him from his troubled thoughts, loud and demanding. “What was that?? “What is going ON here? What history do I not know about? Why do you  _ look at me like that??” _

The killer’s eyes finally lifted from his hands, which lowered into his lap, and his gaze met her face. He said nothing, simply stared, unsure what to say. Or whether to say anything at all. He was confused about all this himself - and on the note of their…  _ history…  _ for some reason, he couldn’t bear to tell her. The knowledge of what had gone on between them… the things he’d done… it made the guilt worse. So much worse. 

“UGH!” Meg threw her hands up, exasperated. He didn’t blame her.  _ “Say something, you big dumb turtle!” _

In an effort to appease her and also to distract from her question, he finally said, “You don’t… see it.” The Trapper’s disservice had cost him his voice, his humanity, and so it was difficult to string words together - but he tried. For her. “The… red… string.”

Meg’s brows furrowed. “Red string…?”

“It… connects us,” he replied, frowning. She really couldn’t see it? Why did the Entity choose for him to see their connection, but not her? “Always has.”

He could see the curiosity written all over her face. He couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of relief that she seemed to have forgotten about her previous questions to focus on this new revelation. “Where is it now…?”

He hesitated - but eventually instinct won. He lifted a hand, extending it toward her; he could see her stiffen up, maybe in fear, maybe in anticipation - but he pressed a finger to where the string extended from her chest, then followed it to his own. Meg seemed thoroughly confused by it all. “Is it… is it like that for all survivors and killers? Like.. Dwight and the Wraith? O-Or Nea and the Nurse…?”

The Trapper shook his head. “Don’t know.”

“Helpful.” She sighed. “Listen; I’m still going to need to look at the gash on your face.” He tensed up once more, fighting the urge to turn and leave - which was strange, considering he’d been taught to never run away. His father had always told him to face problems head-on and to crush them. If he were to listen to his father’s mutterings, he would be grabbing the girl and teaching her a lesson - making her regret ever boldly stepping foot here.

“Please… Evan.”

The name brought his attention sharply back to her and he wasn’t sure whether it was exhaustion or guilt that made him relent, but he didn’t bother to stop her when she lifted the mask from his face.

And promptly dropped it.

Her reaction caused him to scowl, averting his gaze. His father had told him on more than one occasion how ugly he was, how much he looked like his mother, and the thought that Meg felt the same way made his lips purse into a thin line. The hulking killer utterly avoided looking at her as she fumbled with the needle once more to stitch up the gash on his temple. He could feel the way her body trembled against him, the heaving of her chest and the shakiness of her breathing; and he wondered, briefly, if maybe her reaction to seeing his face…  _ wasn’t  _ disgust after all. 

Ludicrous.

She missed a stitch and pain arced through his skin down his face and through his neck and shoulders, earning embarrassed apologies from her when he growled. Meg exhibited the same nervous energy from before, when she had stitched up the wound on his chest. “I still have the sketch you gave me,” she suddenly blurted, as if the silence was painful.

Why did everyone always feel the need to  _ talk  _ about  _ everything? _

His gaze shifted up and sideways to look at her and he could see redness to her pale, freckled cheeks. She was  _ embarrassed.  _ Before he could even consider making some sort of response, she began rambling. “I-I’ve been thinking a lot about it all, and it feels like there’s some… I don’t know, history. We’ve been in the Fog for a long time and - I don’t know if this affects killers, too, but - we survivors can’t really remember specific details from inside the trials. Maybe it’s a way to keep us terrorized, to keep the pain and the agony fresh and new for each match, but… is it the same for killers, too? Do you forget what you’ve done when you leave the trial? Or… are there… things that have happened that I can’t seem to… remember?”

That odd sort of panic settled in his chest once more and he couldn’t help but heave a tired sigh, realizing she wasn’t going to let it go. He didn’t care to talk,  _ period,  _ but he  _ really  _ didn’t want to talk about  _ this.  _ Meg, unfortunately, was more perceptive than he ever bothered to give her credit for, and finishing up her stitch, she drew back so she could look him in the eye, impatience written all over her face. “What happened? What do you know??”

The Trapper refused to answer - refused to even look at her. He couldn’t. Because there was no way he could ever tell her what all had transpired between them. Even though he was a killer, a  _ monster,  _ for the first time a survivor had briefly looked at him like he  _ wasn’t  _ one, and he didn’t like the thought of cold anger returning to those blue-gray eyes. But it seemed his silence was almost as telling as a full confession because she stood up, backed away from him, and squinted suspiciously. The red-head turned away, as if giving on the conversation and preparing to leave. Perhaps she didn’t even know why she was here.  _ He  _ certainly didn’t. But for some reason, words came unbidden to his lips: “your hair.”

The girl froze. Glancing back over her shoulder at him, she frowned. “... What?”

Words were difficult, especially a long string of them. Which was why he preferred to just remain silent these days. Let the Entity take away his voice. He didn’t need it.  _ Except he couldn’t help but explain himself to her… or try.  _ His voice was low, gravelly, pausing with struggle. “Your hair… was the first… thing I… noticed.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What about it? I know it’s matted and dirty, but -”

“No,” he instinctively interrupted. He’d spoken more here, with her, than it seemed like he had in eons. Time had no meaning here in the Fog - the Trapper had no idea how long he’d gone without his voice. But he was using it now, despite the effort it took to do so. “It is… beautiful.”

_ Like the tiger lillies his mother used to plant next to the house. Bright, vibrant, hopeful. _

Meg’s eyes widened - then narrowed almost evilly. “Are you serious?” she said. Despite being double her size and probably triple her weight, the massive killer seemed to shrink under her stare. He’d stepped out of line - he’d confused the roles - he’d messed everything up. This was stupid. This wasn’t  _ right. _

_ Stick to your role, know your place. Kill them. That’s your job. Make them pay. Put them out of their misery. _

Then she began berating him, her voice growing louder and louder - and his first instinct was to shut her up. To squeeze the life out of her until he couldn’t hear her anymore. But as he forced himself to listen, he began to piece together the meaning behind her ranting, and that strange, light feeling in his chest returned. “This is  _ crazy!”  _ the red-head growled. _ “ _ Do you hear yourself?! Do you realize how impossible it is for us to - to - to  _ get along?!  _ We’re on opposite sides of the playing field, and not only did you  _ draw me,  _ but I  _ kept it,  _ and - here I am,  _ sewing up your wounds?!  _ And you’re saying - you’re saying my hair is  _ beautiful,  _ I didn’t even know you knew the  _ meaning  _ of such a nice word, but you’re saying it, and looking at me with something other than a killer’s eyes, and -”

“Little Rabbit,” he interrupted, and she stopped her tirade entirely, just staring at him while attempting to catch her breath. Something half-quirked his lips, stretching the scar that ran across his face. He couldn’t tell whether it was amusement or annoyance, or both. “You… talk too much.”

Meg huffed irritably and began marching away without so much as a glance back. The Trapper watched her go, confliction returning. That conversation shouldn’t have happened, and she shouldn’t have touched him. She shouldn’t have  _ helped  _ him. For a reason he couldn’t quite place, the killer felt like this encounter between them… it changed everything. It had brought something to life - and he couldn’t help but think that maybe, maybe Meg was the ticket to change.

As he watched her run, fade into the trees, there was something in his milky eyes that resembled determination. An absurd thought occurred to him: if she could be brave enough to step out of her role and tend to his wounds… perhaps he could be brave enough to do the same. 

Perhaps he could be a protector, instead of a murderer.


End file.
